


If You Can't Laugh (You'll Cry)

by mugsandpugs



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Patrick Hockstetter is his own trigger warning, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, The power of friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-06 09:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 62,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: ... And if you start crying, who's to say you'll ever be able to stop?Henry Bowers gave Bill Denbrough a 'free ride' during the 1988/89 school year in respect to the death of his little brother Georgie. Patrick Hockstetter isn't so generous.Richie Tozier is willing to do a lot to keep his friends Bill, Eddie, and Stan safe from the most unhinged member of the Bowers gang, who has taken an unhealthy interest in them. Eventually, however, the abuse begins to wear Richie down. Will his friends realize what is happening and save Richie before Patrick breaks him beyond repair?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Series playlist [[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqKZ_WIK5ms&list=PL4bXBmEi4b6bi4pJgQlwupB89bbOKVjOF)]
> 
> Especially triggering chapters will have a warning in the upper notes.

Bill is a numb, shuffling zombie when first he is forced to return to school after Georgie first goes missing.

Teachers and other students are sympathetic, of course- in a town as small as Derry, news of a missing six-year-old travels fast. But whispers fill the halls, too. Rumors and speculation, some so cruel that the older Denbrough son can only curl in on himself, tighter and tighter with each passing word. 

_"I heard his father did it. Cut him up into a million tiny pieces-"_

_"If that happened, do you think Stuttering Bill is next?"_

_"How do you know_ Bill _isn't the one who did it? It's always the quiet ones..."_

_"Shh, he'll_ hear _you!"_

The first time it happened, Bill had wilted against his locker like shriveled lettuce in the sun, giving shallow, rapid breaths that reminded Richie of Eddie's impending asthma attacks. He wasn't crying- he looked too far gone to cry. So Richie did the only thing he could think to do: he ran his mouth. 

"Oh, are you talking about Bill?" He turned to the group of gossipers; a short freshman blinking up at the upperclassmen through coke-bottle glasses without an ounce of intimidation. "Yeah, he's one crazy motherfucker, alright. If you don't leave him alone, he'll dump _you_ into his dad's woodchipper, too! He uses the meat to fertilize his mom's garden. Real thoughtful of him." 

The group of girls stared at him like he'd grown three extra heads. Behind his back, Richie felt Bill start to get a reign on his emotions as well. Satisfied, Richie continued: "Some parts don't go through the chipper as well, though. Your skulls look like they'd be too dense to fit. He hangs those up until they dry, and then he makes nice housewares out of them! Cereal bowls, planter pots, ashtrays... That sort of thing. He's a real artistic guy! A great creative vision. It's a miracle he doesn't get better grades in shop class, really." 

Gretta Bowie was the first to recover from Richie's casual tone. Popping a wad of bubblegum at him she sneered, "Freak," and dragged her gawking girlfriends away with her. Richie grinned.

"W-w-w-what the _hell,_ R-Richie?" Bill asked, straightening up from where he'd been leaning against his locker. Oh good; he was feeling well enough to talk. That was something. 

"Hey, buddy. I figure if we make this whole thing into a joke, people who seriously try to spread rumors will just look like idiots. I am a _genius!"_ He said this last sentence in a bad French accent, twirling a fake mustache and giving several honking laughs to complete the effect. Bill smiled. Only for an instant, but it'd be worth everything if he could just keep making Bill smile in this time where he'd lost all humor. 

As the late-bell rang and the traffic in the hallway faded to a slow trickle, Richie turned around to look Bill in his baby blue eyes that had, over a matter of weeks, aged from a kid's eyes to a grieving, tired old man's. Smile or no smile, he still looked like he carried the weight of a thousand lost brothers on his shoulders. 

"You gonna hold it together for the rest of the day, or do you wanna play hooky with me?" Richie asked. The first day of high school was probably too early to earn a reputation for being a delinquent, but there wasn't much Richie _wouldn't_ do for Bill. 

In answer, Bill hauled Richie against him by the straps of his backpack, squeezing him tight and burying his face in his shoulder. Richie glanced around automatically- guys just didn't do this sort of thing with other guys, not at their age- but when he'd assessed that they were now alone, he held Bill in return. "It's gonna be okay," he told Bill. "You've got me and Stanman and Eds. We'll..." They'd already promised each other, in private, to do their best to make this schoolyear bearable for Bill. "We're here for you."

Bill shuddered, nodded firmly. "I know. I know. T-t-thank you, Richie. I'll be okay." 

"Hey, faggots," a familiar voice greeted them, and Richie's back stiffened, but he didn't let go of Bill. 

"Fuck off, Hockstetter," he said, with more heat than was customary in his jovial tone. 

"Ooh," the lanky upperclassman crooned, loping towards them. He always moved like a coyote, Richie thought: slinky and covering a lot of ground with minimal effort. And his rubbery red lips always stretched in a mad smile over his long face, as though whatever reality his crazy brain projected over the world was of great amusement to him and him alone. "Someone's feisty. What's wrong, did I interrupt your mid-morning hump-session?" He tisked, shaking his head in mock-disappointment. "Naughty boys, you're missing class." 

"S-s-so are you," Bill pointed out. Richie was relieved when he let go of him and took a step back, straightening his shirt and squaring his shoulders defensively. Patrick was nuttier than a bag of almonds; it was best to always be on one's guard around him. 

Patrick raised the bathroom pass he carried in his left hand. "I'm on a piss-break." 

He was trying to stare at Bill, and Richie didn't like it. Bill needed to stay out of the Bowers Gang's radar as much as possible. Stepping in front of him, he said, "so go piss, why don't you?" 

No luck. Patrick was still staring dead-on at Bill, lips curling in a leer that made Richie uneasy. Why was he _looking_ at him like he was dinner?! How to draw his attention- "Or are you wearing diapers? Does Henry still have to change you?" 

It was weak, but it worked. Blinking in surprise, Patrick shifted his gaze from Bill to Richie. "Trashmouth Tozier," he said, almost contemplatively. The way his voice and lips curled around the syllables in Richie's name made his skin crawl. "I didn't know you were so interested in what's in my pants. Wanna check?" 

"Considering everyone knows you have every venereal disease known to mankind, I'd prefer not to," Richie remarked, and glanced at Bill over his shoulder. They'd been friends long enough not to need words to communicate: _Go to class,_ he ordered with his eyes. Bill looked reluctant, so Richie tightened his lips, intensifying the severity of the expression. Giving in, Bill took his books and left. Then it was just Richie alone in the hallway with the renowned King of Crazy. 

Great. 

Never one to turn down an opportunity to be a creepy fuck, Patrick slunk closer to the object of his attention, circling him and cutting off an easy escape. Though a head shorter and a good forty pounds lighter than the beanpole in front of him, Richie held his ground, kept his chin jutted defiantly forward. Sure, he might get a beating for it, but he'd not be seen as weak. 

"Why don't you come with me, Trashmouth?" Patrick asked, intentionally breaching Richie's personal space and looming above him. "I have some things I need to tell you about your good friend B-B-Billy." 

Richie tried not to wince as a large, spidery hand came down on his shoulder and he was pushed along in front of Patrick to the bathroom. This would all likely end with his head stuffed in a toilet, he knew, but if he struggled too much, Patrick would just physically overpower him and carry him to the damn bathroom, and there was not a teacher in this school suicidal enough to try and stop him. At least this way it maintained the illusion that Richie still had a say in the matter, though he nearly tripped over his own feet twice on the gray speckled linoleum of Derry High's hallways.

The bathroom stank of bleach and piss, like always, when Patrick shoved him in through the doors and followed after him, strolling leisurely to the urinals and unzipping his pants. Was he really going to piss right then and there? Apparently. Fucking neanderthal. Richie looked away at the booger-green ceiling tiles, and tried not to listen to the steady stream of Patrick Hockstetter urinating. If this was some sort of power play, he didn't understand it well enough to combat it. 

"Well?" he asked, after several long seconds. "You were gonna tell me something?" 

"Yes," Patrick agreed, clearly comfortable holding a discussion with his dick in his hand. "About dear old Stuttering Bill. See, here's the thing. Henry thinks we should go easy on him this year, what with sweet little Fordie getting his spine ripped out and all." 

"Georgie," Richie corrected automatically. "And he's not dead. He's just missing." This last part, he didn't actually believe, but it felt disloyal to Bill not to say that. 

Patrick finished, shook, zipped his pants back up, and turned to face Richie. "Whatever. Point is, Henry has it in his head that we owe him something just because of that. But me?" He leaned in so close that Richie could have counted each individual eyelash that framed his mad sea-colored eyes. "I disagree." 

"Y-you do?" It was hard to think this close to another human. It was like trying to have a rational conversation with a deadly animal mere centimeters from your person: a blue-ringed octopus, maybe, or a water moccasin. 

Patrick nodded. "Mhmmm. I just don't think that's fair. Every other loser in this school is fair game, but Stuttering Bill is safe because some pedo ate his brother? No, that just doesn't sit right with me at all. In fact, I might have to make it my very own special mission to make sure Billy gets treated just like everyone else." 

He was threatening to make Bill his own, personal target. That was, all things considered, significantly worse than being just one of many of Henry Bowers' punching bags. Never mind that Richie would certainly be in trouble for missing most of world history on his first day of school; this kind of trouble was a much more concerning kind. 

"I..." reducing Richie to a begging mess was obviously what Patrick wanted when he'd hauled him into the secluded bathroom. He'd try to hold out for as long as he could. "I would strongly prefer if you did not do that," he finished lamely. 

"You would?" Patrick pretended to consider this. "Well. See, it's possible I'll forget to administer his punishments. But only if I have some good distractions." 

"I... hear video games are a good distraction. I can't deny or confirm, though. My parents won't buy me a Nintendo; they say my attention span is too short as it is-" When in doubt, ramble. Good one, Richie. 

He fell into an unsettled silence as, smiling ever-brighter, Patrick took him gently by the shoulders and pushed him against the sink basin, and then _kept_ pushing until Richie's back touched the mirror behind the sink. He was standing on the very tips of his toes just to keep his footing, with Patrick's overheated body too _close._

"That's not the kind of distraction I'm looking for, Trashmouth," Patrick whispered into his ear, hot breath seeming to burn the side of Richie's face. In a moment, he thought he might melt. "I think you know exactly what I'm getting at." 

Richie did, and that was the horrible thing of it all. He'd seen television programs on the Bad Touch- ridiculous cartoon specials that had him rolling his eyes and scoffing. _'If an adult tries to touch you in a place or in a way that makes you uncomfortable-'_ And oh, he was uncomfortable now, with Patrick stroking up and down his arms and nosing at his jaw and making little _'hmm, hmm'_ noises in his ear. But Patrick wasn't an _adult,_ and Richie wasn't a girl getting felt up by her gross uncle. Surely boys couldn't... other kids couldn't... He was making too big a _deal_ out of... 

Maybe the fact that finishing thoughts had become as difficult as Bill trying to verbalize a tongue-twister should have tipped Richie off that something was really, really wrong. As it was, he felt curiously numb, like he wasn't quite in his own body just then, but floating several feet above it all. 

Patrick's hand ghosted between Richie's legs, palming, _feeling._

"Stop-" he said it so faintly that it was inaudible to his own ears. He swallowed, face craned up to the ceiling, Patrick's messy dark hair tickling his cheek and neck, and tried again. "Stop." 

It was terribly weak. He fully expected to be ignored, for Patrick to continue doing whatever it was he wanted to do. He was surprised when Patrick stepped back, hooded eyes still raking over him like he was a buffet table full of goodies. He resisted the urge to cover his body with his hands: fully dressed, but bared completely by those sticky eyes that slid off of him like a physical weight. "Stop?" Patrick asked. There was something obscenely childish about the pout to his lower lip. "Aw, Trashmouth, we were having _fun!"_

Richie didn't know how to articulate that 'fun' didn't usually entail him wanting to puke his guts out and then take a bath in bleach. For once, all words seemed to have left him. He could do nothing but stare up at Patrick and tremble like the last autumn leaf on a dead tree. He told himself to quit it, that people like Patrick fed off of fear and to show it only made them stronger, but he could not bring himself to calm. He'd never in his life felt more like a prey animal. He'd never felt so _powerless._

"I guess you won't be a good distraction for me after all," Patrick said, checking his fingernails for chips as though already bored by Richie's presence. "Maybe your other friends love Bill enough to protect him, since you apparently don't." 

"My other..." 

"Yeah, the little one and the Jew. I hope one of _them_ actually gives a damn about poor Denbrough, or else..." Patrick shook his head in mock concern. "Who _knows_ what will happen to him?" 

Hot emotion boiled in Richie's guts, transforming him from numb to furious in the space of a heartbeat. "You leave Eddie and Stan the _fuck_ alone, you freak. You pervert. You... you _sicko._ If you touch them, I swear to God I'll kill you myself." The thought of Eddie crying in fear as Patrick's poison hands stroked him, or stoic Stan standing tall and trying to be strong as It happened to him was too much to bear; Richie felt a physical pain in his chest, like his heart might actually break in two. 

"You talk like you care about your friends," Patrick observed, not bothered in the least by the death threat. "But do you really? You're not doing your best to protect them."

Oh, that hurt. Richie squeezed his eyes shut tight. Panicking would do no good. It would take a clear head to survive this situation without going at least a little mad. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door swung open and janitor Mae, mop bucket in hand, filled the doorway with his bulk. He looked from the smugly grinning junior to the terrified and shaking Freshman, and back again. "Sorry, Patrick," he said at last. "I didn't mean to interrupt." 

"That's alright, Mae," Patrick waved him off. "I'm almost done with him. Come back in a few minutes." 

Without even sparing a sympathetic glance Richie's way, the middle-aged man left them to their private discussion, leaving Richie to stare after him with his mouth hanging open. Sure, he'd always known that the school bowed to the Bowers gang, but to actually see it in action...?! His last hope was blown out like a stubborn candle on a birthday cake. 

Patrick oozed over to the door and pressed his back to it, stretching out long and lean and expectant as a lazy cat who knew the trapped mouse would step willingly into her mouth. "Come here," he said, after it'd sunken in during that long, quiet moment, that Patrick really could do whatever he wanted. That no adult would stand in his way. He crooked his finger in a come-hither motion. 

"What are you going to do?" Richie asked, and then wanted to punch himself. What a babyish question. 

"Actually, it's what _you're_ going to do, Richie. You're going to kiss me, and it'd better feel like you mean it." Patrick leaned back against the sink and folded his arms, eyes closed so that the shadows of his long lashes fanned out against his cheeks. He looked, for all his cruelty, in that moment like Snow White dreaming in her glass coffin. 

Richie approached on shaking legs, wondering if he had it in him to do this simplest of things. It was for Bill, right? Nothing was out of the question when it came to protecting Bill. 

He half expected Henry, Vic, and Belch to burst, laughing, out of the bathroom stalls at any second. They'd call him a faggot, laugh at how ridiculous it was that he'd fallen for it. It'd all just be some big joke, and they could all continue with their days afterwards... 

He had to stand on the tips of his toes and brace his fingertips on the door to reach Patrick's mouth- how stupid was it that his first kiss was going to _this_ piece of shit?! - and touched lips with him before springing back like he'd been burned. It was too quick to get any more sensory input than _rubbery; warm._ He stared up anxiously at Patrick's face. 

Nothing happened. He remained unmoved; Snow White slept on. 

He'd said he had to _believe_ the kiss, whatever the fuck that meant. Resisting the urge to tear at his hair in frustration, Richie mustered his courage up a second time. This time, when he kissed Patrick Hockstetter, he forced himself to linger, tilted his head, attempted to mimic what he'd seen on television. Though he was loathe to touch him any more than he had to, he really, _really_ wanted out of this bathroom, so at last he awkwardly slid his arms around Patrick. 

When he felt the lips underneath his twitch in a laughing smirk, he scowled, a curious blend of shame, embarrassment, and anger filling him like a flash flood. 

"Shut the fuck up," he snarled. "I've never kissed anyone before. Can't you tell that I'm _trying?!"_

Patrick didn't look in the least insulted by his tone; if anything, he looked all the more delighted. "Sure I can, cutie pie," he cooed. "Now it's my turn." 

He hauled Richie against him until their bodies were, inch by inch, in full frontal contact, until Richie was standing on top of Patrick's feet for additional height. A palm clapped on his ass; Patrick's other hand tangled in his hair and tipped his face back, and then he was on Riche's mouth, sucking at his lips, tonguing at his front teeth. It was so _much_ and so _fast_ and Richie's hormone-addled brain could do nothing but spin and spin as he braved the onslaught. Richie was breathless by the time it all mercifully stopped. 

"Okay. I'll take it," Patrick decided, as though satisfied with a purchase he'd made. He pushed Richie off of him and reached for the door. "You're my toy now, Tozier. Congratulations. Meet me at midnight by the library- and if you're not there, I _will_ come find you." 

With a smile that was more bearing of teeth than an actual expression of good humor, he left Richie behind in the bathroom Richie knew he'd never be able to use again without Remembering. 

With his knees no longer able to support his body, Richie sank to his butt on the cold tile ground, buried his face in his hands, and began laughing with hysterical abandon. Even to his own ears, the sounds echoing off the walls sounded far too much like sobs.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't see much point in showing up for the last five minutes of world history, so he instead walked straight for math class, wanting to get there before the bell rang and the halls once again flooded with students.

He waited in the shadow of the door's alcove for the previous period's students to filter out before slipping in and picking a seat near the back. 

"Well you certainly got here fast," observed his teacher, a middle-aged woman in a pink tracksuit. "So eager to begin studying?" 

Richie forced a smile. "It's not just my mouth that runs at hypersonic speeds," he joked. 

He vaguely remembered from exchanging schedules the week before that one of his friends shared this class with him, so he hooked a leg around the nearest chair as well, saving it for when they arrived. 

There were a few _"Hey, Richie"_ s and half-joking _"Oh no, Trashmouth Tozier is in this class!"_ s mixed in among the familiar faces from middle school. He grinned and waved hellos, but didn't really snap out of his funk until he saw Stan's face, and then his heart squeezed in his chest. Why couldn't it have been Eddie? Stan, shrewd, intelligent Stan, could always tell when something was amiss. 

"Hey," he mumbled as he took the seat Richie had saved for him. "I thought you were supposed to sit in the front." He was referring to Richie's nearsightedness- and it was true, he struggled to see the blackboard from here; the white lines of chalk were near-illegible squiggles even with the aid of his glasses. 

"I thought about it, but all the good stuff happens in the back," Richie explained, and waggled his eyebrows until Stan rolled his eyes. 

Stan had a _good_ face, Richie decided. Too serious, like a little old man from his pressed trousers and evenly tied shoes all the way up to his eyes; a bright, clear hazel. It was his hair that destroyed the illusion; loopy blonde curls that always looked tussled and untidy sticking out around the _kippah_ his mother had crocheted for him. 

"You're staring at me," Stan pointed out, pulling his binder and bag of pencils out of his messenger bag. They looked brand-new and freshly sharpened, unlike Richie's motley assortment of battered notebooks and half-chewed pencils. 

"I like your hair," Richie blurted out. It sounded stupid when he put it into words, so he dropped his voice a few octaves and said huskily, _"Baby."_

Stan rolled his eyes a second time, so forcefully that it looked like it hurt. 

The pink-tracksuit teacher interrupted the classroom buzz by standing at the blackboard and clapping her hands. "Alright, guys!" she said perkily. "I'm Mrs. Duffer; some of you might recognize me as the soccer coach-" 

It was impressive how fast Richie managed to tune her out. 

He remembered the night after Georgie disappeared. Bill, still sick with influenza, had been trembling when Riche and Stan rushed to his house, slowed by the heavy rain flooding the neighborhood. Bill's parents had joined the search party, as had Stan's. 

Bill shook his head when they rapped at the door. "I'm s-sick, guys. I don't w-w-want you to-" 

Stan, scowling bright and fierce as the sun, had shoved open the screen door and dragged Bill into his arms. "Shut up, Denbrough." 

Bill's arms dropped limply to his sides as he allowed himself to be held. Richie noticed he was holding the landline telephone and plucked it from his hand, bringing it to his own ear. "Hello?" 

"Oh good, you're there." Eddie whispered on the other line. "My mom won't let me leave. She's probably gonna keep me locked in here for weeks, now that kids are going missing." 

"It's okay," Richie reassured him. "We've got him. We'll be around to rescue you when we can." 

There was a long silence. Richie watched the almost hypnotic movement of Stanley's arm rubbing Bill's back, slow and comforting and timed with the steady hiss of rain. 

"Richie?" 

"Yeah, Eds?" 

"You be careful, too. Stay inside." He said it because Richie's parents never would. In that moment, Richie was a little in awe with how much he and his friends loved- truly loved- one another. There was a certain kind of magic to it, brightening up this horrible world they lived in. 

He remembered how it had felt, curled on the couch with Bill in between them, struggling to stay awake, Eddie calling for updates every few hours. He must have fallen asleep eventually, because he seemed only to close his eyes when, a moment later, rabbi Uris was gently shaking him awake. 

"Any luck?" he asked Stan's father, and realized that he and Bill had piled on top of the man's dozing son. 

"No, sweetheart," said Mrs. Uris, brown eyes rimmed red from crying. Her bushy hair was tucked under her wet blue rain slicker. "No sign of him." 

Richie helped rabbi Uris gently move Bill, still hot and clammy from fever, so that he could lift a sweaty Stan out from underneath him. He carried his sleeping son out to his car as easily if he were still an infant. 

Stan's fingers snapping in his face startled Richie out of his memories and back to present-day math class. He jumped a little in his seat. 

"Earth to Trashmouth," Stan frowned, inspecting his face. "Are you okay? You look weird." 

"You sure know how to charm a guy," Richie replied automatically, batting his eyelashes. "What's up, Stan the Man?" 

"Class is over." he glanced at Richie's notebook. Instead of taking any notes, he'd simply been doodling for the past fifty minutes. 

"Why the hell were you drawing urinals and toilets?" he asked, head crooked as he studied the images. "You're _being_ weird." 

Richie, face hot, slammed his notebook closed and stuffed it in his bag. "Weird's what I'm good at," he said enigmatically, and followed the group of kids to the door. Stan caught his arm before he could get too close to the stairwell and escape in the crowd. 

"Richie." He was firm as a stone wall. There was no escaping it. 

Richie sighed and turned to face him, and suddenly it was as if Patrick was holding him all over again: his lips, his arms, his chest- he felt as if it must be visible on his skin; like mud and filth streaked over him. He couldn't maintain eye-contact with pure, untouched, _good_ Stan. He had to shrug off his arm. 

"Stay away from Hockstetter," he advised. "As far away as possible. He really, really has it in for us this year." 

Stan's frown deepened. "Did he hit you?" 

Oh, if only. Richie evaded the question. "I need to go." 

Before Stan could call him back, Richie disappeared into the milling students. 

* * *

Richie rarely thought about his parents. 

It wasn't as though he hated them- or so he told himself. How could you hate someone you never saw? 

They used to call him when they knew they wouldn't be coming home. _"Sorry, darling; we're stuck in Bangor overnight. Daddy got a little too tipsy at the party and we've decided it best to stay at a hotel..."_

Gradually, they'd stopped calling. But that was alright; even when they were around, they weren't _really_ there. He remembered a handful of times he'd tried to catch their attention- to show them funny things on television, or to hold up his school papers for them to see the higher than normal grades printed in a teacher's red pen. 

"That's nice, honey," they'd dismiss him, and go back to their phone calls and business plans and party arrangements. It didn't matter if he behaved like an angel or acted out rebelliously; they rarely seemed to remember they even had a son. 

So, eventually, he decided to pretend that he didn't have parents, either. He cooked his own meals and washed his own laundry and patched his own scrapes and bruises, and when he was lonely- which was often- he left the house and went to bother one of the other Losers or see what mischief he could find in town. Annoying Eddie's mother was one of his favorite pastimes; the concept of being truly scolded by an adult never lost its novelty. 

That afternoon, however, Richie didn't feel like going out. He walked around his vast, empty house, checking that all the doors and windows were shut and locked tight, and then he barricaded himself in his parents' dusty bedroom to stare blankly at their television and hug his knees to his chest. 

The Addams Family, in it's pixelated, black-and-white glory featured on the 'golden oldies' channel, was his favorite show on television. Usually, it captured his attention like nothing else would, but today he could barely focus on Gomez and Morticia's weird and loving family. Today, his mind kept straying to what he'd have to do when the big hand of the clock hit twelve. 

He considered his options. He could just not show up... but what if Patrick made good on his threat to come find him? The last thing he needed was Patrick showing up _here_ and realizing how alone Richie really was. 

He could call Bill... The thought almost made him laugh. What a cheery phone call _that_ would be. _"Hey, Bill. I know you're busy with your missing sibling and your exhausted, nonfunctional parents and all that jazz, but uh, I think the craziest member of the Bowers gang is going to beat me up and/or rape me, so if you could show up with your dad's .44 and keep me from getting killed, that'd be great."_

No, that wasn't an option. But... And here he seriously toyed with the possibility... 

What about Stan's parents? 

Rabbi Uris had said on more than one occasion that Richie was always welcome in their home. He'd spent many a night sleeping in Stan's trundle bed, had eaten countless meals at their table. He loved them with a low, fierce intensity that he kept buried in his chest, in the fear that if anyone figured it out, they'd try and take them away from him. If he told them what was happening to him, maybe... 

No. It was unthinkable. Richie had _heard_ things about Patrick. Buildings burned down. Small animals left filleted and hanging off of street signs. Burning crosses in front of the Hanlon butchery; raw pig's offal stuffed in the Uris' mailbox. The town already hated the Uris family for their Judaism. What if them sticking up for Richie was the last straw, and they ended up hurt bad? 

He was doing this to protect his friends, and so he would have to do it alone. 

With that final decision came a surprising, heavy exhaustion. He didn't have any reason to be so tired; it was only four in the afternoon, and he'd gotten plenty of sleep the night before. 

Still, he could only just keep his eyes open long enough to crawl into his parents bed, hugging his mother's pillow to his chest. He barely had the presence of mind to remove his glasses and lay them on the side table before he was asleep, the dialogue from the old TV show permeating his dreams. 

He woke, disoriented and headachey, hours later. A glance at the digital alarm clock confirmed that it was just after ten: he'd slept the afternoon and then the evening away. _Damn._ It really was too late to call Stan now. 

His stomach growled. He hadn't been able to eat much at lunch, had let Eddie drink his chocolate milk instead. 

Well, there was nothing for it. He went into the kitchen and fried himself a grilled cheese sandwich with the last of the bread, making a mental note to buy more at Dollies after school the next day, and sat on the couch to eat it. 

"Nice grilling, son," he said aloud in a passable imitation of Gomez Addam's chesty voice, and added, "The scorch marks remind me of our first home," in Morticia's smooth, mysterious voice. Usually, pretending to be them cheered him up, but tonight it wasn't cutting it. 

This was ridiculous. He was going crazy. 

Grabbing the telephone, he punched in Bill's number as he stuffed bread and cheese into his mouth. The disappearance of Georgie Denbrough had Mr. And Mrs. Denbrough so disoriented they didn't seem to care what happened around their house; Richie could probably have called at two in the morning and they wouldn't have noticed. 

The line rang six times before Bill's groggy voice picked up. "Hello?" 

"Hi." 

_"Richie?!"_

"Yep, that's me." 

Bill, whom he'd obviously woken by calling, was probably frowning at the phone with that little crease he got between his eyebrows. Closing his eyes and imagining his friend's face calmed Richie like nothing else that night had. 

"W-w-what are you doing, Rich?" 

"Eating a sandwich. Talking to you." 

"Oh... kay?" 

There was a long pause. Richie could hear a muffled _tick-tock-tick_ of the large Denrbough grandfather clock in the background. 

"What k-k-kind of s-sandwich?" 

They talked for a while, long enough for Richie to finish eating and curl onto his side with his eyes closed and the curved phone pressing onto his face. The speaker moved with his jaw when he spoke. Eventually Bill cut to the chase. 

"I w-wish you'd t-t-tell us what's wr-wrong." 

"Us?" 

"Me and Stan. He's worried about you t-t-too." 

Damn Stanley and his damn x-ray eyes that saw through everything he tried to hide. 

"Nothing's wrong, Bill. I'm just... It sucks, not having my parents here when so much shit is going down." It was a cheap shot to play the absentee parent card, but he needed to throw Bill off his scent before he tried being the hero, and they both ended up sucking Hockstetter's cock. He'd protect Bill from that fate with everything he had; the poor kid was going through enough already. 

"Oh," Bill's voice softened understandingly, and guilt picked at Richie's carefully crafted shell. "You c-can come over whenever you want, R-Richie. I'll l-leave my w-window unlocked." 

Normally, he would have made a joke about that- about all the sorts of things he planned to do to Bill after climbing through his window. Suddenly, after the confrontation with Patrick in the bathroom, jokes like that didn't seem so funny anymore. "Oh no, Bill, that's not... don't do that, okay? Not when there could be creeps around town." There were definitely creeps around town. 

"You c-can't stop me." 

They ought to have named him _Stubborn_ Bill, instead of Stuttering Bill. Richie sighed. "I'd feel safer if you didn't." He glanced at the clock- fifteen after eleven. _Shit._ "Look, I need to go, okay?" He chewed his lip. If they were both girls, he could have said, _I love you_ without it seeming weird. If they'd been actual blood brothers, he wouldn't have to say it- it would just be implied, expected. "I'm always going to be there for you." _In ways neither of us ever expected._

"Thanks, R-Rich. Me, t-too. Goodnight..." 

Hanging up felt so final. Going through the motions of washing his dishes, zipping into a jacket, tucking Stan's Boy Scouts utility knife into his jeans pocket, and climbing onto his bike were so automatic that he felt like a robot doing it. He couldn't take the main road to the Derry Public Library- there was a strong curfew in town, meaning Butch Bowers and the other cops would be driving around to make sure no kids were out and about. Luckily, he knew a fair share of alternate routs and arrived at the building, dark and locked up for the night, sooner than later. 

Not sure where, exactly, Patrick intended to meet, Richie walked his bicycle up to the libraries' bike rack and bent to lock it in place. Something on the ground caught his attention, and he bent to look at it closer. It was brown, and curved... was that a shoe? A boot? He tilted his head... 

A girl was wedged on the ground behind the bike rack, her chest pressed against the stone wall of the library. She was curled in on herself as though she were cold, but she remained horribly still. For a stunned moment, Richie could do nothing but stare at her. Was she _dead?!_ Was she one of the missing kids? 

Cautiously, he reached forward and touched her shoulder- then flinched as she twisted and aimed a punch at his face. 

"Whoa!" he put both hands up. "It's just me! I'm not gonna hurt you... Hey, aren't you Beaver- I mean... _Beverly_ Marsh?" 

He knew that pretty freckled face and those crystal-blue eyes. There wasn't a boy in Derry who _didn't_ know her and her sordid reputation. As far as he was aware, though, she hadn't been missing. 

She'd raised her fist for a second punch, but lowered it when she saw that he was no threat. "Trashmouth Tozier?" 

"Yeah. Jeez, you pack quite the right hook. What are you _doing_ out here?!" 

"I could ask you the same thing. There's a curfew, you know." 

He considered, watching her as she sat up, her bare, bruised knees poking between the metal bars of the bike rack. "I'm looking for someone." 

"Yeah, well I'm hiding from someone. Patrick Hockstetter's been circling the block." She bit the inside of her cheek, oblivious to how this information made Richie's stomach knot itself painfully. "You should hide here, too. There's room. And honestly? I think he might be behind all the kids going missing." 

Richie had contemplated this, as well. It'd be just like Patrick to drag away small kids like Georgie Denbrough and... 

If Patrick really was the killer, then Richie was walking right into his hands. He could only hope the blade in his pocket was enough. 

"Why aren't you at home?" 

She fixed a Look upon him. Richie was usually fairly immune to pretty girls, unlike Bill or Stan, who became flustered, embarrassed disasters around them. But there was something in her look that silenced him. She _could_ not go home tonight. She _would_ not tell him why. Apparently, whatever was at home was worse than the real possibility of getting killed on the street. 

"Okay," he said. "Keep hiding here. I'll take care of Hockstetter." 

"You'll do _what?!"_

Her coppery hair was sleep-tangled, and she was wearing only a flimsy nightgown and boots without socks; her laces hadn't even been done up. She looked as miserable as a kid hiding outside a library at midnight could look. When his conscious tugged at him, he looked away from her and stripped out of his jacket. It was oversized, so even though she was taller than he, it should fit alright. She hesitated, but the reality of her own grim situation made her reach out and take it anyway. 

He looked at her one last time. In her eyes, he saw the same, unnamed element that joined all of his friends. They were Derry kids, born and bred. They knew what it meant to grow up with death looking over their shoulder, surrounded by adults that pretended not to see it. 

It occurred to him, as he moved his bike so that it blocked any view of her from the street, that hers might be the last friendly face he would see before he died. If that was the case, he hoped she'd tell someone what happened. To be dead was one thing, but to be missing scared him more than words could say. 

After that, there was nothing to do but to walk to the sidewalk, stand under the streetlight- not the one closest to the bike racks; he didn't want Beverly to see what was about to happen any more than he wanted Patrick to notice _her-_ and wait. 

He didn't have to wait for long. 

The click-click-click of approaching bicycle spokes made his heart pound, and he resisted the urge to spin around, to crouch with his back to the streetlight like a cowering mouse. Finally, the bicycle was upon him. 

"Hey, stranger," Patrick beamed at him, his smile so, so wide under his crazed blue eyes. "Take a seat." 

Richie closed his eyes tight, took a deep breath, and climbed onto the handlebars of Patrick Hockstetter's bicycle.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the most surreal thing to be riding through Derry so long past curfew on his enemy’s bicycle. It felt as though they were the only two real people in a town of dollhouses.

They rode past the school, the city hall, the fire department and police station. If they didn’t stop, they were going to ride all the way through Derry and onto the highway. Richie’s anxiety increased with every passing minute: Patrick was taking him farther and farther from home- from people who could save him. 

_It’s already too late,_ a dark voice in his mind whispered, and he nearly choked on a sudden, overwhelming fear. _Nobody but Beverly Marsh has any idea where you are. He’s going to kill you. He’s going to kill you just like he killed Georgie._

“Patrick,” he said quietly, his heart doing crazy things in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever called the Hockstetter boy by his first name before. “Where are you taking me?” 

“Almost there,” was all the other boy said. 

They made a sudden, sharp turn and found themselves officially on the ‘bad’ side of Derry- the secluded streets of far-spaced, rotting houses in hopeless disrepair. Didn’t Henry Bowers live somewhere around here? Was Patrick taking him to Henry? Oh, god… He had a sudden mental image of himself burning alive on a stake while the two psychopaths poured the gasoline. “Patrick-“ 

“We’re here.” He said this in a sing-song voice that made chills crawl over Richie’s spine. He looked around, and then made a small noise like a mouse being stepped on. 

“You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me. The Neibolt house?!” 

If Patrick’s smile grew any wider, it was going to fly off his face altogether. “What? Not romantic enough for you?” 

This stopped Richie cold. “You’re serious. You’re actually serious. Junkies stay in there, Hockstetter. And- and. Isn’t it like. Condemned?! The floor is all rotten!” 

“Nothing bad’s ever happened to me here.” 

Patrick routinely hung out in the most haunted house in Derry. Of course he did. Did he do it because he was crazy, or was he so crazy _because_ he’d apparently been breathing in the fumes there so much? 

“I’m _not_ going in there.” _If you want to murder me, it’ll have to be out here._ The inappropriate likelihood of the thought made a hysterical giggle rise in his chest, and he beat it down fiercely. 

Patrick shrugged and nudged down the kickstand of his bike. “Suit yourself.” 

Seeing him in this context- in the dark, without his friends or the backdrop of school or town to normalize his existence and soften his razor’s edges so that the rest of the world could pretend he was normal- only added to the overall sureality. This could, possibly, all be an overlong, very uncomfortable fever dream. 

Patrick dismounted the bike. Without his weight to counterbalance the thing, Richie was forced to stand as well, lest he fall face-first. He stood, facing Patrick but only staring at the ground. What a fascinating thing the ground was. He didn’t appreciate it enough. The _ground_ never looked him up and down like he was the most fascinating science experiment in all the world. Good old ground. 

A knuckle pressing under his chin forced him to look up into those empty, pitiless sea-colored eyes. 

“Are you gonna make me kiss you again?” Richie whispered, knowing in his heart that this was no dream. 

“That’d be a good start.” 

Oh. Well. He’d sort of known this was coming, didn’t he? 

Richie stepped forward, and as he did, he also stepped out of himself. He was reminded of earlier, in the bathroom, viewing his own body go through such motions with numbed, unattached emotion. Richie’s body stood on tip-toe, rested his palm on Patrick’s shoulders, and kissed him. He kept his left hand in his pocket, feeling the cold wooden handle of Stan’s knife in his palm. 

Patrick allowed the chaste kiss for a moment, then tangled a hand in Richie’s hair, dragging his head back. When Richie exclaimed in pain, he crashed their mouths together. Teeth clacked- Richie felt the distinct sensation of slicing before blood- Patrick’s blood, from his _tongue_ \- trickled into his mouth. Patrick didn’t seem to mind. 

This was less of a _kiss_ and more of an uncomfortably invasive excavation. Patrick’s bleeding tongue lapped the roof of his mouth; curled around his back teeth. Had he been able to extend it further, Richie had no doubt he would have slipped it all the way down Richie’s throat and into his stomach. Later, if he survived, he knew he’d be freaking out like hell over someone else’s tongue squiggling around in his mouth. Now, though, his only thought was his favorite four-letter word. 

Breaking away to gasp for breath, he snarked, “I promise I’m not keeping any surprises in my _gums.”_ Because it did feel like a police procedural pat-down. He swiped pink drool from his chin with the back of his hand. 

“You don’t like the way I kiss?” Patrick didn’t look offended. On the contrary; he seemed amused by Richie’s irritation. “Show me how you want it, then. Did you want me soft and sweet?” 

“I don’t _want_ you- this- at all,” Richie angrily reminded him. _”I_ just want you to leave me and my friends the hell alone.” Now that all was underway, he supposed he could stop being so afraid. He’d been afraid enough today already. It wasn’t like Patrick could _extra_ kill him… could he? 

“Not an option, kiddo. We made a deal. You’re my toy for as long as I have to leave Bill Denbrough alone, so you'd better be an interesting one.” He hooked his spidery fingers into Richie’s belt loops and dragged him close, then, unexpectedly, _bit_ him on the neck. 

“Aw, _fuck-!”_ Richie exclaimed, trying to push him off. That shit _hurt!_ Was he going to rip out his goddamn jugular, or- 

Patrick suckled on the skin he’d caught between his teeth; capillaries under the skin bursting like fireworks to leave one hell of a nasty bruise. He didn’t seem to mind that Richie had wrenched painfully on a handful of his hair, trying to drag him off. 

When he was satisfied, he sat back, and dragged his tongue from the mark all the way to the front of Richie’s throat, where his teeth closed feather-light over his Adams apple. “Mine,” he whispered, the word feeling like a ball and chain being fastened around Richie’s neck and wrists, and then he suckled lightly at the bulge in Richie’s throat. 

“Oh, fff-“ Richie hadn’t expected, and certainly hadn’t meant, to physically respond to the sensations. But there were so many of them, and they were all so new and unexpected and fast, and he was very young. It wasn’t personal, he frantically reassured himself as his pants were suddenly feeling too tight. It had nothing to do with Patrick. It was just biology. It was half-panic anyway; he felt far closer to crying than jizzing himself. 

His huge hands were pawing at Richie _everywhere_ now. Raking up his shirt to the chill night air, tugging on his sore nipples and then traveling down his sides; over his ass and between his legs and back to card in his hair. It was too much, too _much-_

“What’s this?” Patrick halted his onslaught, and Richie’s weak legs nearly buckled. 

“Um.” He worked his jaw, tried to regain enough semblance of self to speak. “What’s what?” 

Then he noticed Patrick’s hand curled around his own in his pocket, feeling the smooth knife handle. _Shit._ “I can explain-“ 

Patrick drew the knife from Richie’s pocket, and Richie’s hand along with it. Patiently, like a surgeon pulling apart a knot of muscle, he prised Richie’s fingers open until the unmistakable shape of the knife was revealed. 

“Oh,” Patrick smiled, genuinely pleased. “You brought me a gift.” 

It was Stan’s knife. Stan would kill him if he lost it. That didn’t mean Richie was suicidal enough to offer any resistance as Patrick took it from him and flipped through the various blades, seeming to favor the most jagged of them all. His eyes shone, looking more alive than he had all night. 

“You, uh, you like knives, huh?” Richie tried to smile, but doubted he’d succeeded. Patrick with a knife was just as unsettling as Patrick with a makeshift flamethrower. 

“I like _this_ knife…” 

_Well. Sorry, Stanley._ “It’s yours. I- are we done here? My parents will worry if I don’t come home soon.” A blatant lie, but one he had to try just the same. 

“Are we… but you’re so _hard!”_ as though there was any mistaking what he meant by this, he palmed Richie’s erection through his jeans. He said it like he might say, _you’re short,_ or, _you’re wearing glasses._ Richie tried, and failed, not to turn red. Patrick’s expression looked so earnest, but the slight curl to his mouth confirmed Richie’s suspicions: he was making fun of him. 

“Yeah, uh. It’s okay. Really. I can take care of that on my own.” 

“Oh, no. That’s not good for you. Why don’t you take care of it now?” 

Richie blinked dubiously. His glasses had fogged up during the ‘kissing’, but he didn’t dare take them off to clean them on his shirt. If he was going to be attacked, he wanted to see it coming. “You want me to just start jacking off here?” Was Patrick’s plan to humiliate him to death? 

“Well, I tried to take you into the house, but apparently you’re an exhibitionist who prefers to do it in the middle of the street. Who am I to judge?” 

The middle of the street. Close to the Bowers’ household. And Officer Butch Bowers, renowned homophobe, was driving through Derry in circles as they spoke to catch whomever was taking the kids before he (she? It?) struck again. If they got caught like this… If they got caught by him doing all this gay shit… Richie suspected he may have _wished_ Patrick had killed him. 

“Fine. Take me inside.” 

The inside of the Neibolt house was just as decrepit and foul as the outside- worse; it smelled like hundreds of mice had lived and bred and died within the walls over half a century or so. Based on the state of the electrical wiring, they probably had. 

Richie refused to go any deeper into the house than the entryway, and steeled his resolve. The sooner Patrick got tired of this, the sooner they could be on their way. He turned back to the taller boy. “Hockstetter-“ 

“Well go on, Tozier. Put on a show for me.” 

Patrick sat on the dusty ground, crossed his legs, and rested his chin on his fist, the face of a rapt audience. In his left hand, he continued to play with a knife, flicking through the different blade options and closing them back up again. 

_Get it over with. Just_ get _it over with already!_ The humiliation was burning his gut like acid. He leaned his back against the disgustingly soft wall and closed his eyes as he unzipped his pants and stuffed his hand inside, feeling his own erection nudge his hand. 

“Well, take it out,” Patrick gestured impatiently with the knife. “I can’t _see_ anything-“ 

_Just. Get. It. Over. With._

It was hard to get a good rhythm like this, but he tried his best, twisting his hand on every downstroke until his hips started to move of their own accord into his hand. So long as he kept his eyes closed tight, he could pretend he was at home. Then Patrick would shift or make a noise, and Richie would remember, and be embarrassed all over again, and lose whatever he had going. 

Richie risked a glance at Patrick. He looked genuinely interested in what Richie was doing, but in a bizarre, clinical way. Maybe he was an alien sent to earth to observe and record human customs. That would explain a lot. He scooted forward, shorter than Richie because he was sitting down, and tugged his pants down further. “Let me,” he said bossily, and gripped the outside of Richie’s hand with his own. 

_Oh…_

Patrick’s hand was much stronger than Richie’s, and his movements were more exaggerated and decisive. It felt… It was so fucked up that it felt this good. _It’s only biology,_ he reminded himself as the sea of panic grew again. But he was close now, so close. 

“You might want to move, Hockstetter,” he panted. “I’m gonna-“ 

He froze then, his blood turning to ice. There was _something_ standing behind Patrick in the shadows of the room, watching. Pale as snow, tall as a statue, with glowing, golden eyes. Richie screamed, more terrified than he’d ever been in his entire life. That thing- whatever it was…! He tried to push Patrick off of him, struggling with all his might to get away. 

_“Oh,_ Patrick moaned, and gave a full-bodied shiver. When Richie glanced down at him, he saw that his pupils had blown to the size of dinner plates and his lips had parted. The more Richie screamed and fought him, the more aroused he appeared. “Oh, fuck, oh god. Do that again, Tozier, won’t you-“ 

He was getting off on Richie’s fear, that much was obvious. But Richie was too scared to even be disgusted, because there was a _thing in the room with them-_

But when he glanced up again, it was gone. As he stared, shaking, at the now-empty spot by the door, Patrick dragged him by his hips to the ground and climbed on top of him. He certainly no longer looked clinical now. 

“P-P-Patrick,” Richie stuttered, more frightened of whatever that thing was than he could be of even a psychopath like Patrick Hockstetter. “Patrick there’s something-“ 

“You look like a little lost puppy,” Patrick panted, reaching into his own pants to grab his own suddenly rock-hard cock. “Do you know what I do to little lost puppies?” 

He jerked himself, staring into Richie’s wide, frightened eyes, unabashedly humping his own hand. When he came, the hot sticky spray of it coated Richie’s belly. And still, Richie couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d _seen_ something; really, he had! 

Patrick collapsed on Richie, his full weight crushing him into the rotten wooden floorboards. Richie allowed it, still looking around, prepared to run. And still there was… _nothing._

_Stress can cause hallucinations,_ a reasonable voice in his brain that sounded a lot like Eddie’s piped up. _And you’re under a lot of stress right now._

That was true. There was no way something as frightening as the image his brain had conjured up could be real. It had to be that- the stress, the lateness of the hour, the creepiness of the house. Richie had only been seeing things. The real threat was the hundred and forty pounds of Patrick Hockstetter pressing on him, and he’d best not forget it. 

“That was so great, puppy,” Patrick murmured, in what probably passed for pillow-talk in his deranged little mind. “I’ve never heard anyone sound so scared in all my life. Thank you.” 

“I- sure. What- um. Can I. Can I go now?” Richie tried pushing at Patrick’s shoulders, desperate to get out of the house. Who cared if there was a killer roaming Derry? If he had to stay in here one more minute, he’d go mad. 

Satiated and sluggish, Patrick only waved him off. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you around.” 

He was dead weight, completely unhelpful as Richie wriggled out from underneath him. 

Richie practically ran out of the house on trembling legs that barely supported his weight, gasping in lungful after lungful of clean, fresh air. He was shocked beyond belief that he was even still alive. The Neibolt house was probably full of mold spores; maybe breathing all those in had added to the hallucination. It could be anything. There were a million and one explanations as to why he’d be seeing a giant, washed-out clown watching him getting molested by the town’s biggest bully. There had to be. 

Still though. 

The ‘being watched’ sensation was a hard one to shake. 

* * *

The thought of returning to his empty house all by himself was almost unbearable. He'd have sooner walked to the library and slept on the sidewalk next to Beverly Marsh.

Instead, his feet took him past the library and into a nicer neighborhood- not as nice as Richie's own, but the houses here were all two-story red-bricks. He climbed a picket fence, then scaled the pumpkin patch's trellis that leaned against the side of the house. He'd done this so many times that his feet knew the footholds without having to look for them. 

Bill's window slid open silent and smooth, as though it had been oiled. Richie could hear him breathing deeply on his bed in the left corner, so he stepped onto his desk as quietly as possible and hopped to the floor before turning to close the window. 

He crept across the floor and then lay down on the rug next to the bed, removing his glasses before resting his head on his arm. 

On the bed above him, Bill rolled to his side. "Georgie?" he whispered. 

Richie's heart froze, then sank. Was Bill dreaming, or had Richie just got his hopes up for nothing? 

"Not Georgie," he replied, voice tiny in the dark room. "Just good ol' Trashmouth." 

Bill said nothing else. His breathing remained steady and deep. 

After a long, long time, Richie managed to doze off, too. He was woken at six by the beeping of Bill's elephant-shaped alarm clock, and when his eyes slid open, he was greeted by a very blurry view of Bill's face, watching him. In that moment, he felt safe, and loved. 

"Hi," he whispered hoarsely. 

"Hey." Bill reached and turned off the alarm. 

"I don't want to go to school today," Richie grumbled, burying his face in the rug. 

"M-me, either. Come on. D-d-do you have clothes? You can w-wear some of mine." Bill bent down to hand Richie his glasses before he risked stepping on them. 

They dressed and walked downstairs together. Bill didn't ask what had caused Richie to come over; he simply cracked eggs into a pan and poked at them with a fork. 

Sleeping on the sofa was Mrs. Denbrough, wearing a pair of sweats, an empty wine bottle tipped onto its side within reach of her dangling, manicured hand. Richie had never before seen the musician so disheveled; she liked designer clothes and expensive blonde highlights. Now she looked like she'd been crying. 

Bill assembled four plates of fried eggs, sliced tomatoes, and buttered toast. One, he left on the side table by his mother. He and Richie carried theirs and the spare to the den, where Mr. Denbrough was staring absently at the blank television. 

"D-d-dad, breakfast," Bill said hopefully. 

Mr. Denbrough looked at his remaining child, blinking owlishly, for a long moment. "Thank you, son," he said quietly, and took the plate, but didn't seem to know what to do with it. 

_Is this what a broken home is?_ Richie wondered. He'd thought 'broken' was just another word for 'divorced'. He'd never heard it in the context of how a little boy being stolen away on a rainy day could hollow the soul right out of a house's walls and leave the remaining inhabitants quiet, shriveled husks. He ate his breakfast quietly, feeling like an intruder. 

"Dad, c-can you drive us to, to school on your way to w-w-work?" Bill asked. Again, that long, _long_ pause before any answer. 

"Us?" another pause. Then, "Oh, hello, Richie." 

"Hi, Mr. Denbrough." 

"Did you say work, son? Do I work today?" 

"Y-yes, dad." 

"Oh, shit." Mr. Denbrough scrambled to his feet and ran upstairs; they heard him in his bedroom; the running of a faucet as he brushed his teeth, the roll of drawers as he dug for clean clothes. He returned ten minutes later, dressed in his "Derry Plumbing and Electric" uniform. "Well, better get in the car, boys." 

Bill and Richie parted ways at the drop off zone. Bill had gym first period; Richie needed to get his books and some spare paper from his locker, because all his things were still in his backpack at home. Not that it mattered; he hadn't done any of the homework anyway. 

Stan was waiting for him at his locker. "Why are you wearing Bill's clothes?" he asked, eyes narrowed. 

"I needed something to wear after nailing Eddie's mother, and Eddie's clothes are too small to fit me." 

Stan was onto him, he could tell. He was determined to get an explanation, any explanation, for Richie's weird behavior, and he wanted it now. 

Richie ignored his meaningful looks as he entered his locker combination. "Stanley, when you finally become a man who can please a woman, you'll understand," he said loftily. 

_Well.Women. Psycho puppy-killers who get off on screaming terror. Close enough._

This only annoyed Stan further. "Richie, you've never even had a girlfriend. What girl would want to date an asshole like you? Would you quit lying and be serious for once? Why are you _smiling_ like that?!" 

Richie, grinning, pulled his jacket out of his locker, where it had not been the night before. Pinned to the collar was a note written in a distinctly feminine hand: _'Thanks, Richie.'_ The 'I' in his name was dotted with a little heart. 

"You were saying?" Richie asked the speechless Stan Uris, before slinging the jacket over his arm and making his way to his first period. If nothing else, it was good to know Beverly had also survived the night. He'd take whatever victories he could right now.


	4. Chapter 4

Eddie accompanied him to Dollies after school let out, complaining loudly when he had to push Richie's weight uphill on his bicycle. For his part, Richie was uncomfortably stuffed in the front-riding basket. He'd grown too big to properly fit anymore. 

"Where's _your_ bike?" Eddie grouched when Richie took pity on him, climbed off, and went around to help push him up before his asthmatic lungs gave out. 

"I left it at the library." 

Eddie snorted disbelievingly. "No, you didn't. You've never spent more than five minutes in a library."

"I had to, Eds. Your mom wanted me to check out some books from the porno section with her." 

He couldn't help but grin at the gagging sounds this caused Eddie to make. 

Arriving at the small, independent supermarket, Richie waited for Eddie to chain his bike to a stoplight before following him inside. Eddie went straight to the pharmacy in the back while Richie, basket over one arm, grabbed hold of a few grocery items. 

"Oh, great," muttered the woman at the checkout counter when he stepped up to her booth. "Here comes trouble." 

 Richie assumed she was referring to him, but grinning cheekily at her drew his attention to something much worse happening just outside the window behind her bad, frizzy perm: a familiar blue Trans Am pulled into the parking lot, and four teenage boys hopped out, loping to the store like lanky wolves on two legs. _Oh, no..._

Abandoning his groceries, Richie sprinted to the back of the store, grabbed Eddie by the back of the shirt, and dragged him through the swinging bathroom door, ignoring the pharmacist as he shouted that they weren't _allowed_ to take unpurchased items into the bathroom. 

"Richie, what the _hell-"_ Eddie squawked. Richie looked around nervously. There were three stalls in the store's co-ed bathroom. He kicked open the door to the nearest one and, ignoring Eddie's protests, dragged him inside. He lifted him to stand on the toilet before turning to twist the door's little locking latch. 

"Richie, this is disgusting! What are you-" 

Richie climbed onto the toilet as well and clapped a hand over Eddie's mouth, waiting, listening. Above his fingers, breath was whistling through Eddie's nose at a rapid-fire rate: he was starting to freak out... 

The door to the bathroom creaked open. "What do you want now, you little freak?" demanded Henry Bowers. 

At hearing his voice, Eddie stopped squirming, frozen like a deer in headlights. His little heart was beating against Richie's chest so hard he thought it might burst, so he ducked his head, wrapped his free arm around Eddie, and held him still. His smooth brown hair had the baby smell of the No-More-Tears shampoo his mother still made him use. 

"Wasn't that Kaspbrak's faggy bike out front, with the big green basket? I just thought you might wanna play with him, is all."  

The sound of Patrick's sly voice made Richie feel sick, sick, sick. He closed his eyes tight. _Go away,_ he thought. _Please just go away._ He could feel Patrick's overlarge tongue squirming in his mouth, the sounds he'd made as he came on Richie's stomach. He hadn't had a chance to shower since that had happened- had had to clean his skin as best he could with water from Bill's garden. The realization that he probably still _smelled_ like Patrick made him want to tear his own skin off. 

"Well." Henry again, and he sounded deeply annoyed. "He's not  _in_ here, so I guess not...?" 

Richie imagined him gesturing impatiently to the lack of feet visible under the stall doors. He let out a huff of breath- there was a slam of a body hitting a wall, like he'd shoved Patrick away, and then the door swung closed again. A long pause. Then- 

"Why is it always bathrooms with you, puppy?" Patrick's smiling, slick-as-honey voice was so _close,_ like he was leaning right against their stall door. _He knows,_ Richie thought in despair, a cold sweat trickling down his back. _Oh, hell, hell, hell..._ "I'll be seeing you around..." 

Then he, too, walked out of the bathroom and back to the main store. 

He waited another couple of long minutes to be sure they wouldn't come back in before looking at Eddie, who had gone white as a sheet. When Richie stepped off the toilet, Eddie ignored Richie's proffered hand and clambered off himself, then walked around him to lean over the sink, breathing hard and fumbling in his fanny pack for his inhaler. 

"What the hell was that about?!" he snarled between clenched teeth when he could again form words. 

"In my culture, standing on a public toilet together is essential for a betrothal ceremony. We're married now. Congratulations." 

Eddie didn't laugh. He was genuinely mad at Richie. Great. 

When they were sure the Bowers gang had officially left the store, they dared creep out again. At the checkout booth, the store manager was lecturing the female clerk Richie had talked to earlier- something about letting the gang steal beer and cigarettes. 

"Oh, like I was going to stop them," she scoffed sarcastically. "You _know_ those boys, Kent. They carry knives. You were hiding in your office, too." 

Richie approached, glad to see his grocery basket was where he'd left it, and she rang him up sourly, taking the crumpled dollar bills he held out to her. "You got some sort of beef with those boys?" she asked. When he shrugged, she snorted. "Good luck, kid." 

Eddie was next, paying for a spattering of different medications on his mother's charge account. They walked out of the store together, and Eddie turned his back on Richie, reaching for his bike. He clearly intended to leave without saying anything more. 

"Oh-" something like panic scrabbled in Richie's chest. _Don't leave me..._ He tried to mask it with a smile. "Don't be mad at me, Eddie Spaghetti." 

The smaller boy's shoulders stiffened, and he turned around, a scowl on his face, to point an accusing finger at Richie's chest. "First off," he snapped. _"Don't_ call me that. Ever. Secondly, what the _hell_ is going on with you?! We're on day _two_ of the school year and you're already ditching and flunking?!" 

Richie was surprised Eddie had noticed that much. They only shared one class together, after all. Eddie continued with his rant. 

"You're wearing Bill's clothes and _he_ won't say why, and Stan says you have a girlfriend leaving you stuff in your locker, and now... what was that with Patrick Hockstetter? Why did he call me 'puppy' in that creepy voice?!" 

Well. Richie supposed he did have a right to be angry about that. He didn't like to keep secrets from his friends, but it was for their own safety. "I can't... I can't answer those things, Eddie," he said desperately. "I'm sorry. Please, _please_ don't be mad at me-" 

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Eddie noticed a second before he did, because the anger on his face melted to pure confusion. _"Richie..."_

Richie removed his glasses and swiped at his face with the sleeve of Bill's shirt, trying to get ahold of himself. He would not break down crying like a baby, not in front of Dollies where anybody could see. "I promise I'll fix everything. I'll be normal. I _promise,"_ he said, voice thick. "But don't... don't walk away from me like..." _Like you'll never come back._

"Richie," Eddie said again, looking like a lost little boy. "You're _scaring_ me." 

Well. That wouldn't do. Clearing his throat, Richie put his glasses back on, set his shoulders tall, and offered Eddie the biggest smile he could conjure- which was pretty damn big. 

"Eddie _Spaghetti!_ Your old friend Trashmouth Tozier would _never_ scare you!" He affixed his British-man voice and continued briskly, "But the hour grows late! Pip-pip and tally-ho, my good fellow, your dear mother will be worried sick about you! Best run home and give her a big, _big_ kiss from me." He winked suggestively.

"I..." Eddie still looked a mix of so many emotions. Richie would just have to show him how normal he could be. 

"I know, I know. How can you possibly survive for even a minute without my presence? Well never fear, old chap; what do you say to a movie night at my house this weekend? Just you and me... and maybe Stan-the-man and B-B-B-Billy-Boy, if they want?" 

Eddie _so_ wanted to believe him, Richie could tell. He _wanted_ everything to be normal and okay. Slowly, he nodded. "I... I guess..." 

"Splendid! Now off with you, little Kaspbrak! I must catch up on my assignments and return Big Bill his underoos!" He set off at a jog, grocery bags in hand and smiling all the way. 

He stopped by the library first, where his bicycle still waited for him. There was no sign of Beverly having slept there the night before. 

Because it was well before curfew, he coasted on the main road all the way home and got there in record time. He stopped dead in his tracks, however, when he saw that the lights in the house were on, his parents' car was neatly parked in the driveway, and music floated cheerily through now-open windows. _No friggan' way..._

Apparently, yes friggan' way. He heard his parents speeking cheerfully to one another in the kitchen and, as he stepped into the house, they called for him. 

"Richard!" 

"Come on in here, son!" 

Then they were on him; lipstick kisses and hearty thumps on the back and all. The air smelled amazing; they were making some kind of pasta dish with a lot of wine and a million spices- something they'd learned on one of their many trips to Italy. 

"Dinner will be ready in a-" 

"Haven't seen you in _ages-"_

"That's an interesting shirt, darling, did I buy-" 

" - had the most _wonderful_ time in Manhattan-" 

"- your father's concert was a roaring success-" 

"- bought you some gifts; we left them on your bed-" 

"- be on a flight to Coopersville tomorrow, just a little two-day jaunt, and then-" 

It was a long and fruitless struggle before he managed to wriggle out of their grasp, having not gotten a single word edgewise. He slunk to the laundry room to strip out of Bill's clothes and dump them in the wash, then changed into his pajamas. Despite their self-obsessed natures, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little glad to see his parents, if only for the confirmation that they existed and he hadn't made them up. 

He joined them for dinner and ate the gloppy (but very tasty) orecchiette they'd made, listening to them babble about everything under the sun. The answers to their infrequent questions rarely required more than one or two words, so he gradually tuned them out until- 

"-heard about the little Denbrough boy-" 

"- so sad, just terrible-" 

"Don't you be getting in cars with strangers, Richard. I don't know what we'd do without our sweet boy." 

He blinked at them. "Huh?" 

"I just don't know how Zachery and Sharon are coping... how is William?" 

So, somehow they'd caught wind of what had happened to Georgie. That was surprising; they didn't exactly stay up to date with Derry's current events. 

"Bill is holding up about as well as he can." He unintentionally slipped into his British-man voice while talking about the painful subject, which caused his mother to frown at him. 

"I _do_ wish you'd stop talking in those silly voices, dear. It makes you sound impaired." 

Like twittering birds, they quickly found other subjects to flit to, subjects that required no input from their son. They hardly seemed to notice as he excused himself and returned to his bedroom. He had two days worth of assignments to catch up on- had to be normal for his friends; and doing poorly in school was Not Normal for bright Richie, after all- and when he was around them, he felt like he himself had already gone missing without them noticing. 

Much later, as he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he saw in the gilded mirror his mother pass behind him on her way to her own room. She stopped before she reached the door and turned back to look at him. 

When he closed his eyes, he breathed in her Chanel perfume- a smell from his earliest childhood, from back when she used to hold him and really _talk_ to him. The smell brought with it a false sense of safety. 

Maggie Tozier, now standing behind him, frowned and touched a spot on his neck. With a jolt, he realized it was the quarter-sized bruise Patrick had made that drew her honey-brown eyes. It had previously been covered up by the collar of Bill's shirt, but the stretched neckline of Richie's pajamas sat much lower. 

For a moment, he thought she'd ask about it. He could almost hear her say it: _Who did this to you, Richard?_

God help him, he would have told her. He would have spilled every word, would have sank to his knees and wept into her skirts, had she only _asked._

_Please,_ he thought, hardly daring to hope. _You know what it is. I_ know _you know what it is..._ But she only bent at the waist to kiss the top of his head.  

Watching her in the mirror, he observed how similar their coarse, feathery-dark hair was, the strands mingling until he couldn't tell who's was whose, not until she pulled away again. 

"Love you, sweet boy. Pleasant dreams," she said, her eyes already a million miles away. His heart sank like a rock. 

"I love you too, mom," he whispered, and she retreated to her room and shut the door. 


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick, unexpectedly, seemed to lose all interest in Richie after that. He saw him around school- he was impossible to miss- but aside from a few mild _"Faggots,"_ sneered the Loser's way by Belch Huggins, none of Bowers' gang paid any special attention to the four losers. Despite this, Richie wasn't letting his guard down just yet. Maybe the novelty of his new toy had worn off, and Richie was off the hook. He _wanted_ to believe that, anyway, but it felt more like a waiting game. When was the other shoe going to drop? 

He finished out the week more or less normally, catching up on his missing assignments and apologizing to his teachers for cutting class. They were surprisingly forgiving about the whole thing- _"You knew Georgie Denbrough, didn't you, Richard? He was... he_ is _your best friend's little brother... you must be feeling so confused about everything right now."_ \- and gradually Stan stopped staring at him quite so intently. Whatever little blip that had been going off in his Richie-radar seemed appeased. 

Bill and Stan both agreed to a movie night/sleepover at the Tozier household to finish out their first week of school, which boosted Richie's mood considerably. He no longer liked sleeping alone in his empty house. Sometimes, when he let his eyes unfocus, he thought he saw things moving in the corners. 

_Stress,_ Eddie's voice in his mind affirmed, every time it happened. _It's just stress. There's no Patrick. There's no clown._

What was the big deal, really? So he'd gotten a handjob from Hockstetter? That wasn't the worst thing in the world, was it? Sure, he didn't swing that way, and no, he hadn't _wanted_ it, but his body sure had. He'd popped a boner; he'd almost jizzed; the whole shebang. At least _some_ part of him must have enjoyed it, right? No harm, no foul. 

_Oh no, you got jerked off to keep your friends safe. Poor you. Cry to someone who has real problems._

And if he had to sleep in his parents' closet every night with all the lights in the house on in order to feel safe enough to close his eyes for a couple hours at a time, well, so be it. 

This was no big deal. He should just forget the whole thing. 

"Ugh, you stink," Eddie complained at lunch on Friday. "When was the last time you took a shower?" 

He'd showered on Tuesday because his parents were home. Now, the thought of being naked and blind without his glasses was too uncomfortable to deal with. "Sorry," he laughed, trying not to feel embarrassed. "My parents forgot to pay the heating bill; the water is freezing." _Normal Richie takes showers. I need to take showers._

"So shower in the locker room." 

Being naked around other boys, too, had lost any of its minute appeal. Richie hesitated. 

"I've got shampoo and stuff in my gym locker that you can use," Eddie pressed, because of course he did. "What's the big deal? It's _really_ unhygienic to skip showering, you know. You could be spreading bacteria-" 

This was getting more embarrassing by the second. "Fine! Fuck, Eds; if I say I'll do it, will you just leave it alone?!" 

Eddie's mouth closed and he blinked, boggle-eyed, at Richie. Richie remembered what he'd said the other day- _"you're scaring me."_

_Be normal,_ he reminded himself, for the thousandth time that week. _Normal_ Richie Tozier wouldn't yell at his friends over the comedy gold that was body odor. 

"Are you saying that you do not like my manly stink, señor?" he asked in the much-hated Poncho Vanilla voice, and leaned into Eddie's space, puckering his lips at him and making obnoxious kissy sounds that caused other kids in the crowded cafeteria to glance their way- including the four boys at the table in the back corner. "Is it that my raw masculinity is too sexy for you?" 

Stan, raising his eyes to the ceiling as though begging God to lend him strength, remarked, "Richie, you weigh ninety pounds and you have the upper body strength of overcooked pasta. Nobody is swooning over your masculinity; just over how much you stink." 

Eddie's nose wrinkled; he pushed at Richie's too-close face, but at least the momentary wariness had left his eyes. "Go. Shower!" 

"Anything for you, baby." Richie switched from Poncho Vanilla's gravelly accent to Jessica Rabbit's smooth, seductive tones- or the best imitation of it that he could manage with the occasional puberty-driven voice crack. "Remember, though, if you get lonely... I'll be waiting for you."

"G-g-go!" Bill insisted, but he was laughing. A rare sight nowadays indeed. Richie mentally took a snapshot of Bill's bright, laughing face and stuck it in his memory bank, for use when the nights all on his own seemed too dark and empty. 

He _didn't,_ however, notice the tall figure loping along not far after him. 

The boys' locker room was empty during lunch period, save for Coach Bishop in his tiny office, where he was eating his own lunch and listening to the sports station on the radio. 

"What're you doing in here?" he asked, chewing his ham-on-rye, as Richie stumbled into the locker room and headed for Eddie's locker. 

"I-" He'd used the lie before once today, might as well recycle it. "I don't have any hot water at home. I need to shower." 

The coach's eyes swept over him. Richie was known for being a prankster, so he didn't necessarily _want_ to leave him alone to goof off in the showers, but his hair was lank and greasy, and he was smelling rather ripe. "Alright, Tozier. Make it snappy. And next time, just shower after gym with everyone else if you need a wash." 

"Yes, coach." Richie didn't bother with snappy retorts; he was feeling nervous already, and his lunch period was half over besides. He quickly spun the combination to Eddie's locker and grabbed the bag of supplies nestled neatly on top of his gym clothes. 

The shower-area of the locker room was basic as could be; tile walls, concrete floor pitted here and there with small, circular drains, and two dozen rusty shower heads set at intermittent distances from one another; enough for a full gym class to shower at once. Richie chose the one in the back corner that had a modicum of privacy from the door and, stripping down to only a towel around his waist, began to wash himself, setting his glasses on top of the bag of supplies by his feet. 

His hair really _was_ greasy; the smell intensified as it was heated by water, so he scrubbed it quickly with the baby shampoo. He didn't used to sweat and produce so much grease. Puberty was a real bitch. 

A quiet echoing behind him made him flinch- his mind flying, as it had a thousand times before- back to that _thing_ in the Neibolt house. It'd had such a wide, _wide_ mouth- 

A hand clapping on his own mouth muffled his shriek. 

"Shh, it's just me." Patrick's smooth voice in his ear was not much comfort, but Richie went from screaming to quiet in the span of one rabbit-quick heartbeat. This was almost a relief: he'd wondered when Patrick would make his next move. Now he could _stop_ wondering. 

Instead of removing his hand, Patrick only stepped closer, pressing his body against Richie's back. He was still fully dressed; his dark clothes getting soaked under the spray. "Surprised you're all by yourself. Aren't you supposed to be eating lunch?" 

_Aren't you?_ Richie thought, a sharp spike of annoyance stabbing his guts. Right now, he was not afraid. Right now, he was _angry._

Patrick touched the mark he'd made the last time they'd been together; it had faded from indigo to an ugly yellow-green. _Mine,_ he'd said, after biting Richie. He didn't say it now, but Richie _felt_ him think it. 

Richie jerked his head to the side, knocking Patrick's hand off his face. "Did you want something?" he asked, barely able to keep his voice a whisper. 

"What a hostile puppy! I'm only here to return the little favor you gave me at the Neibolt house." Patrick rested his chin on Richie's shoulder, his hand drifting from Richie's bare chest down to his towel-covered stomach, which he'd once sprayed with semen. Richie's insides twisted at the contact- and not entirely unpleasantly so. His body recognized the touch. His hormones knew it could be good, if he just allowed it... 

Getting used to Patrick Hockstetter touching him did not sound like something a wise person with self preservation instincts did. How many strokes would precede the stabbing? Richie was not delusional enough to believe his attentions would forever remain soft and pleasurable. People like Patrick existed only to destroy. 

But then Patrick's lips- just lips, no teeth- were pulling softly on the shell of his ear, and his hand was sliding into his towel to palm his belly, fingernails scratching lightly, and Richie could not hold back the full-body shiver that engulfed him, despite the warm water. 

"Are you gonna pull a knife on me?" he asked suspiciously, tilting his head so that he could partially see Patrick's face. 

This made Patrick smile. "Today? No." 

And God help him, Richie believed it; if only because Patrick had no _reason_ to lie. If he was going to hurt Richie, he'd want it to be _known._

Patrick's lips found his ear again, flattening over it, tracing the shell with his pointed tongue. And fuck, if that wasn't sensitive. 

Richie hadn't realized that his hands were pressed flat to the cold tiles of the wall until his fingernails scrapped in the grout. This made Patrick laugh. 

"You like that, puppy? You like me playing with your little velvet ears?" 

"Please stop calling me that," Richie groaned through gritted teeth. "I fuckin' hate it. Just- just use my name." 

Patrick considered. "For today, then. So long as you don't forget who your owner is." 

Well. If he was so open to requests- "No marks, either. My mom saw the one you left last time." 

How much complying until it wasn't assault anymore? By negotiating, was Richie now accountable for all that had happened to him- making it his fault? Would Patrick stop this entirely if he asked him to? 

Somehow, he didn't think so. He feared what would happen if attempted it. _I tried being nice to you, puppy, and you just wouldn't have it._ He could imagine Patrick saying it; pictured a hand crushing his windpipe; a lighter flicking open and closed before his face. Better to take this proffered olive branch and not look a gift horse in the mouth. 

"No marks today, either," Patrick agreed. "Lets find out what else you like, hmm?" His hand rose from Richie's belly to his sternum; he rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and smiled brightly at the noise this elicted from Richie. "Good," he encouraged in a hoarse whisper, for Richie's benefit alone. "My good boy." 

Patrick was so _big._ Only a few years older than Richie, but he'd cleared six feet the year prior. He was slender but strong; wiry. Richie, like the rest of his friends, had yet to hit any kind of serious growth spurt. Maybe someday he would be tall- both his parents were, after all- but it hadn't happened yet. When Patrick pressed him down into the wall, he enveloped his body entirely; Richie felt himself disappear. 

"Lets get you out of this," Patrick decided, and worked at the knot in Richie's towel with one hand until the cloth fell loose. 

"Don't-" Richie started to protest, but it was no use. The sodden thing fell with an unappealing splat around his ankles, and then he was naked and soaked and pinned to the tiles. 

"You're so scrawny," Patrick laughed, tapping at Richie's ribs. "Don't you ever eat?" 

"Don't you ever shut up?" Richie countered, stung by the casual mockery. If he was so ugly, then why wouldn't Patrick fuck off already? 

"That's rich, coming from you, _Trashmouth._ Quit trying to spoil my good mood." 

Richie tried not to gulp at the quiet threat in Patrick's tone, a hint of his previous fear returning. Right. He'd almost forgotten. He held still and allowed Patrick to stroke his body with his seemingly-huge hands. Chest to stomach and back again, dipping lower and lower to the small patch of wiry hair below Richie's naval. He kissed Richie's neck, right on the bruise, and the echo of a painful ache rippled out around it- drawing out a low moan from Richie's throat. It made tears prick in his eyes, though he couldn't adequately explain _why._ He was getting hard, though. 

"That's a good boy," Patrick remarked, when he noticed. "Getting so hard for me- oh, are you embarrassed?" Richie didn't go a pretty-pink like Stan when he blushed; he knew all-too-well his face, ears, neck became red and blotchy. Evidently, everything about his body amused Patrick, because he bared his teeth in a hyena-smile. 

"I'm not gay," Richie said, when Patrick's right hand finally wrapped around his cock. "I'm not actually like this." 

"Aren't you?" Patrick laughed, disbelievingly. Then, "it doesn't really matter. I'm not, either." 

_Then why-_

A hand wrapped around his throat, forcing his head back against Patrick's shoulder as he began jerking him off in earnest. Patrick slipped a finger into his mouth, pressing flat to his tongue. With his jaw forced open and his head tipped like this, Richie drooled down his chest as Patrick bit his ear. 

_"-uck-!"_ he said, apparently a little too loud because Patrick's giggle-vibrated "Shh!" was half serious. 

He was getting lighteaded; it was harder to stay standing, so Patrick propped him up against his frame. _Too much. Too fast. Too good-_

"Can't last?" Patrick placed tiny kisses over Richie's cheeks, his eyelids, the top bump on his spine - nothing like his invasive, forceful kisses at all. They _burned_ like embers in Richie's skin, reminding him of the ache from his bruise. "That's alright. Go ahead and let go, Richie." 

His fingers pressed deeper into Richie's mouth, causing him to drool more and gag a bit. At that sound, Patrick's own body stiffened- though Richie couldn't see his face, he could picture the pupil-blown look of his arousal. 

"That's a good boy," he said again, and this time his voice was a bit deeper. He flicked his thumb over the head of Richie's cock; added a twist in his wrist going from root to tip. Richie would have been jerking his hips, had there been room at all to move. He reached behind himself, blindly grabbing, and seized Patrick by the hip, pulling him closer in his desperate scrabble. 

"You want me?" Patrick's voice cracked a little. "You really want me, Richie?" 

_I don't know. I don't know anything anymore._ He wanted to cum so badly he could have cried, though. He spread his legs further apart to find purchase on the slick ground. His free fist slammed on the wall- he was angry; he was horny; he was alone in the world while the world was a smile painted over tears; and suddenly he had all the attention he could ever want. It burned him from the inside out like a star collapsing. 

"-lease-," he said, over the fingers in his mouth. Patrick quickly pulled them free, speaking eagerly in his ear. 

"'Please' what, Tozier? What do you want?" 

He sounded so _earnest,_ like he really cared, like he _truly_ wanted to make this good. In that moment, Richie believed it. 

"You. I don't know. I just. _Fuck,_ can't you-" 

"Of course. Okay." Patrick sounded like he was talking to himself for a minute, like he was excitedly working through a problem with a clear solution. He stepped away from Richie for a moment, but before Richie could miss the pressure on his back, he'd flipped him around and- _dropped to his knees._

Richie could do little more than stare, dumbfounded, as Patrick took his erection in his mouth with all the eagerness of a girl in a porno. His cheeks hollowed. His hands gripped Richie's hips, and he bobbed his head as he vigorously, sloppily, noisily sucked him off. 

_"Oh-!"_ Richie had to clap a hand over his own mouth to keep from crying out. He pressed as hard as he could, eyes wide, chest heaving. It was impossible not to stare at the boy before him swallowing his length down easily, and staring right back up with him with clear-sea eyes as he did so. His jeans and t-shirt were plastered to his body from the water, his hair flat and dripping as well. The level of eye-contact was uncomfortable, but Richie couldn't have looked away if he'd tried. 

His toes actually curled, and Patrick slapped a hand on his hip to keep him upright, curling around the narrow pelvic bone and squeezing his ass as he did so. Richie's high, muffled whines sounded loud- too loud- in his own ears, and he grabbed a fistful of Patrick's hair, trying to pull him off before- 

He came, longer and harder than ever he had before, down Patrick Hockstetter's throat. He actually saw stars. 

Patrick pulled away, swallowed, sat back on his haunches to grin up at Richie, who had fallen against the wall and was panting with a palm pressed to his chest as though if he removed it his heart would pound right out and onto the floor. 

"Good, right?" Pearly white was shining on Patrick's lower lip. "You gonna say thank you?" 

_He_ had thanked Richie, the last time. Maybe that was just how these things were done? Best not to anger him after all that. "T-t-thank you," Richie managed to get out, between chattering teeth. 

"Ha! You sound like Denbrough when you stutter. Come here." 

He tugged Richie, who was suddenly all-too-aware of how very naked he was, down to his knees and into his lap. His arms wrapped around Richie's back in a nice hug, and he kissed him on the mouth. Sweetly, even, though Richie wasn't much a fan of the taste of his own cum. Bitter. 

God, but he wanted to question this abrupt switch in behavior. He didn't understand it. He didn't trust it. It made him wary... 

Was it wrong if he almost, _almost_ liked it, though? If a part of him was already wishing that Patrick would _stay_ this way? 

A hand carded through his wet hair, combing it smooth. "You'd better get to class, pup- _Richie._ Fifth period is almost over." 

"But I-" 

A finger covered his lips. "Shh. You don't get to argue with me. Good little boys should go to their classes." 

As if he had any right calling Richie that after what he'd just done! Richie felt his temper flaring anew as he was pushed up to his feet, but he stopped when he saw a familiar glint in Patrick's eyes. Whatever strange, benign spirit had overcome him was all but gone now. He'd soon be back to his old self- and Richie didn't want to be there when it happened. He shut his mouth, grabbed his towel and Eddie's bag of supplies, and quickly walked around Patrick to dress and gather his things. 

He was almost out the door when Patrick called, "Don't ever forget, Tozier: You wanted me. You said so yourself."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dontcallmesweetie on tumblr drew [ [this] ](http://mugsandpugs1.tumblr.com/post/166029276742/dontcallmesweetie-hi-my-name-is-leo-and-i-enjoy) gorgeous (nsfw) art of the story that I absolutely cannot get over. Please scream about it with me.

Feeling lonely, Richie tugged Eddie back, cuddling him. Eddie made a noise of annoyance when Richie's arm blocked his view of the television. He adjusted his arm so that it was more manageably hooked around his neck instead, and then relaxed.

It still wasn't enough, though, so Richie laid back until he was propped up against Stan. Much better. He hoped, in some dim, childish part of his mind that faded a little every day, that they could stay just like this forever. 

Stan, for his part, tolerated it with the same huff-sigh that he did most of Richie's antics. Richie wasn't fooled. A second later, long fingers were carding through his messy, coarse hair. Stan's almost compulsive need to make everything around him tidy meant that, sure enough, tiny braids started forming in Richie's hair. 

Richie flopped back on him, intentionally crushing him a little, boneless and content with the world. He carefully avoiding the cups of soda the three held as he stretched out. "Stan-the-Man and his magic hands," he sighed appreciatively. 

"G-gosh, you're clingy t-today," Bill remarked, returning from the kitchen with two bowls of popcorn. Bill always made the popcorn perfectly; standing by the popper and holding the bowl patiently as fluffy white kernels spilled out. He sliced the ideal amount of butter paper-thin and tossed it in to melt, and he never put in too much salt. 

"You are a popcorn god," Richie beamed at him. "We kneel before your excellence." 

"Yeah? W-well then why d-does the p-p-p-p-" 

Bill was stuck on the word. It happened, sometimes, but usually not when it was just the four of them. "Popcorn?" Eddie supplied helpfully. Bill nodded. 

"W-why does a god h-have to sit on the f-floor?" he finished his thought as he handed the bowls over, and then went to push in the VHS tape of _Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome_ from Blockbuster. Whatever jerk that last rented it hadn't rewound it. The four Losers watched the end-credit scrawl of the forbidden R-rated film before Bill grumbled under his breath and hit the _rewind_ button. 

"You could sit on the other couch," Stan pointed out, but Bill only made a face at him. This was the couch that actually faced the television and it was way more squashy and comfortable. 

_"I_ want to hear about Richie's new girlfriend," Eddie said when they rewound past an attractive, scantily-clad woman. 

"Yeah," Stan remarked. "Have you hung out with her again?" 

Richie had prepared for this inevitable line of questioning. He'd considered mingling truth and lie. Claiming to have scored big with Beverly Marsh would be believable, considering what the school thought of her. But Bill _liked_ her; anyone with eyes could see that. And he would have felt like shit dragging her like that, now that he had an inkling towards the darker things occurring in her life. 

Instead, he tried for vaguery. "A gentleman never kisses and tells, boys," he winked. "But since I'm no gentleman... let me just tell you: she was _all_ over me." 

Stan snorted. "Pick her up at the local nuthouse, did you?" he asked, at the same time Eddie piped in, "How much did you pay her?" 

"Hey," Bill glared his very paternal _be-nice_ scowl. "A-are you g-g-gonna t-t-t-take, take her to Homecoming?" 

Richie had expected Bill to ask this. In the voice of a lost Shakespearean bard, he bemoaned, "Alas, how I cannot. She no longer wishes to be one with me. I suppose not everyone can handle all I have to offer." He gestured down the length of his body with the hand that held his soda-cup. 

"I _knew_ it!" Eddie crowed. "She _dumped_ you. That's why you've been being so weird." 

"Um, yeah." He tried to look the appropriate mixture of sheepish and sad, but mostly just ended up looking constipated. "It's a sore subject." 

Bill pressed the _play_ button on the television, then scooted to sit with his back pressed to the couch. Richie automatically shuffled the popcorn bowl over on his lap so he could reach it. 

"S-sorry that happened, R-Richie," Bill said sympathetically. 

Guilt for lying to them panged, sudden and sharp, and Richie had to look away from Bill's trusting, baby-blue eyes. _Shit._ "Hey, it happens," he shrugged uncomfortably. "Come on, I hear there's tits in this movie. Turn the volume up!" 

The four boys settled in for two hours worth of violence, explosions, car chases, and pretty girls. It was shaping up to be a great Friday night. Richie was honestly more intrigued by the accents than any of it; his lips formed the clipped syllables along with the actors. He'd practice his own Australian accent later and spring it on his friends when they least expected it. 

They were about forty-five minutes into the movie when Richie happened to glance down at Bill and was startled to see that he looked about a thousand miles away. Tears- real, actual tears- were tracking their way slowly and silently down his face. It clearly wasn't the movie he was crying at, unless he'd developed a sudden emotional attachment to scuffed-up old cars. 

_You dumbass,_ Richie thought angrily at himself. _Gee, I wonder_ why _Bill would be crying._ Of course it was Georgie. Georgie was all Bill ever thought about, when he had a minute to think at all. Richie had just been too self-centered lately to even remember that his friends had feelings. 

_Damn, damn, damn..._ He wouldn't let Patrick make him into a shitty friend as well as a generally shitty, lying person. 

He shifted in his seat and 'accidentally' poured his drink, ice and all, right into Bill's lap. "Oh, sorry, sorry," he said over the confused exclamations that followed. "So clumsy, sorry, come on, Bill-" 

He dragged him away towards his bedroom. 

"W-w-what the hell," Bill stuttered, wiping frantically- not at the soda-covered trousers, but at his wet face. 

Richie waited until they were in the hallway before he threw his arms around Bill, squeezing him breathless. 

Bill immediately deflated like a balloon, sagging in Richie's arms, so limp Richie was a little alarmed. Had he just _broken_ him? 

Bill snuffled, wiping at his face, his thin shoulders shaking as he tried not to give in, not to start blubbering and bawling like a much-younger boy. Not where the others could hear. 

"Hey," Richie said, rubbing his shoulders vigorously. "You're okay. Don't cry, it's okay, it's-" 

It was too late. Bill _sobbed._ Shit. 

Richie dragged him by the arm all the way to his room, shut the door, and shoved a random mix-tape into his stereo. Queen blasted, loud and perfect, drowning out all sound. 

Bill crumpled to the ground, face in hands, and cried so hard Richie feared he'd throw up. He didn't know what to _do-_ Bill was the strong one; Bill was the one that protected them, that guided them. 

"I don't k-k-know what's wrong with me," he said, already fighting to get ahold of himself. "I d-d-don't mean to be such a p-pussy-" 

"Okay, whoa, _no."_ Richie sank down across from him, taking his face in his hands. "Bill," he said sternly, once he'd forced eye-contact. Bill's lip was quivering and his nose was running almost as fast as his eyes were: the absolute face of hopeless misery. "You are one badass motherfucker, okay? I shouldn't even have to tell you this. You're going through hell, and it's okay to cry when that happens. So you know what? Go ahead. I'll be here. Long as it takes." 

Bill stared at him, and then his eyes welled over again and he gathered himself into a ball, shaking as he cried himself hoarse. 

Richie was still no good at this- he wasn't Stanley or Eddie. Emotions weren't his strong suit. He didn't have the right words to make it all better- and he suspected the only thing that would help at all was to say, _"Oh, here's Georgie. We've found him, safe and sound. Silly Georgie, what were you doing, hiding like that!"_

So he sat with his back to the wall, a hand on Bill's shaking back, eyes closed and listening to Queen's vocalists as he felt Bill's shoulders heave under his palm. There was nothing more _to_ do. 

When Bill finally stilled, going quiet, Richie turned to him, feeling more than a little awkward at having witnessed something that Bill would have wanted to keep private. "You can shower, if you want," he suggested. "It'll make your face feel better. I'll throw your clothes in the wash." 

Bill frowned, blinking up at Richie. "I t-t-t-thought you didn't _h-have_ h-h-hot water-" 

_Yikes._ Busted. 

Richie could think of no good cover-up for his exposed lie. He fumbled, flustered, as Bill _looked_ at him. He was reminded of how Beverly had clammed up when he asked her why she couldn't go home. Unlike Beverly, he wasn't brave enough to look Bill in the eye. "It's... fixed now." Lie upon lie upon lie, making him feel filthy and unworthy of this friendship. 

Bill sighed, too tired at the moment to call Richie out on his blatant untruths. "Can you get my bag?" he asked, already getting up and walking towards the door. "I've got more clothes in it." 

"Of course!" Richie agreed too boisterously. He waited outside of the bathroom for Bill to strip, frowning in alarm when he heard muffled, stuttering swears. 

"Bill?" 

"I'm _stuck."_ He sounded half mortified, half furious. 

Richie must have heard wrong. "You're... what?" 

In answer, Bill shuffled forward- there was a quiet _"ow!"_ as he banged into the wall- and then he threw the door open. 

He was indeed stuck; in attempting to yank his polo shirt over his head, the buttons had tangled in his hair. It was obscuring his entire face and he was swearing up a storm- foul language usually only reserved for Richie. 

"Hey, hey- calm down-" Richie tried to hold back a nervous laugh. He knew Bill wasn't in the mood for jokes but... well. He'd tease him about this later, when they were all in better moods. "Hold- would you _hold still?!"_

He stood on tip-toe to look at the mess, tugging at the top of the shirt- Bill yelped in pain, so he quickly stopped- and then rooted around until he could actually _see_ the button. The thread that held it to the shirt was hopelessly snarled with Bill's floppy hair. 

"I'm going to have to cut it off," he decided, and reached onto the counter for a pair of nail clippers. 

Bill struggled, trying to push him away. "Don't cut my _hair-"_

"Hold _still,_ I'm not gonna cut your hair, dumbass, just the thread; you can sew that back on..." he waited until Bill stopped freaking out before making a single, quick snip and catching the button that fell into his hand. "You are free, captain!" he declared in a gravelly Irish brogue. 

Bill whipped his shirt off and emerged, red-faced and panting. Only then did Richie realize the compromised position they were in: he was standing with his back to the wall with a larger, nearly undressed boy in front of him as the shower water loudly ran, drowning out all sound. _Stan and Eddie wouldn't hear me scream,_ was his first thought. Then, _Why is it always bathrooms with you, puppy?_

He didn't mean to freeze, and he certainly didn't mean to flinch when Bill reached to clap him on the shoulder. Bill paused, cocked his head. "R-R-Richie-?" 

"Shower up, me boy!" Richie forced his smile back on full-flux, and tried to subtly knock Bill's hand back as he scooped up his pants from the floor and hastened out the door. "Me maiden eyes ain't meant to witness yer nekkid beauty!" 

"T-t-that accent doesn't even m-make sense." 

Richie carried the soda-sticky clothes to the laundry room, where he dumped them in with an armload of his own clothes and a cupful of white washing powder into the big metal machine. He didn't turn it on yet, though, not wanting all the hot water to be stolen from the shower. He lectured himself furiously all the way: _Stop being such a goddamn psycho, Rich. It was just Bill. It was just._ Bill! 

Bill had never, _would_ never hurt him. 

_But he could..._ a nasty voice in his mind whispered. _He's bigger than you. He_ could... 

He wouldn't. _And he needs you right now, so get your head on straight._ If he couldn't trust Bill Denrbough, then he couldn't trust anyone in the world. And then he would go completely crazy for sure. 

Stan and Eddie glumly watched him as he went back into the main room to grab Bill's backpack from the pile. 

"Bill was crying," Eddie said sadly. 

"Yeah," Richie confirmed, yanking his bag free of Eddie's by the Superman keychain. "But act like you don't know, okay?" 

"Duh," Stan agreed flatly, looking bummed out. 

Richie returned to the bathroom, hearing the patter of shower water hitting the tile floor, and cracked the door open enough to shove the bag through before snapping it closed again, quick as lightening. 

As he grabbed a towel to clean up the spot the soda had made on the carpet by the couch, he heard Stan and Eddie talking quietly, movie completely forgotten. 

"- we just go out and _find_ Georgie?!" 

"Because he's _dead,_ Eddie. Dad said he hit his head and got swept away by the storm and drowned." 

"We don't know that! What if he's hiding somewhere?" 

"Yeah, right, a _six-year-old_ hid all by himself for weeks. It's getting colder at night, it's getting dark earlier... Where is he getting food? Why wouldn't he just _go home_ if he was fine, huh?" 

"Maybe he can't? Maybe he's trapped?" 

"Give up and grow up, please." 

"..." 

"I miss him too, Eddie, don't give me that look. Don't you think I'd give anything to see him trotting by Bill's side, begging him for ice cream and butting into all our stuff again? But it's not... wishing doesn't make it happen, okay?" 

"Bill isn't gonna give up!" 

Richie entered the room, sat next to them, and started dabbing at the soda. "I don't think Bill _can_ give up, guys," was all he said when they fell silent. "Bill isn't the type. Bill..." _Bill would go to the ends of the earth for anyone he loved, and he loved Georgie most of all._

"Okay," Richie declared, when he'd dried up the spot as best he could. "This blows. Today's slid way into sucksville. Lets get drunk." 

* * *

Richie awoke with a warm body curled against his side, dimly aware that he was wearing fewer clothes than usual. He prised open his resisting eyes- wow, sunlight was _not_ his friend right now- and saw that he was on his own bed, holding a fully-dressed Eddie like the world's grouchiest teddy bear. 

At least he still had his underwear on. 

A groan caused him to look towards the bathroom, where he quickly realized that Stan was being _copiously_ sick into the toilet. 

"Richie... Tozier..." he groaned through the open door. "I am going to _kill you_ for making me drink schnapps- _ughhhh."_

"Please do," he replied through a paper-dry mouth. "Make this headache go away." 

A foot was crossed over Richie's ankle, and he followed it with his eyes down to the floor where Bill was still snoring, also fully dressed but with his shirt hiked high enough to show his whole summer-tanned belly. Richie resisted the urge to poke it, then realized with a snort that made his brain throb that Bill was wearing the I Heart New York shirt Richie's parents had brought back from their Manhattan trip. 

"Why am I the only one who's naked?" he questioned, looking down at himself. 

"You don't remember the table-striptease?" 

"Oh yeah..." 

"We all told you not to-" 

"- and I did it anyway, yeah yeah, I remember. Are you done hurling?" 

"I'd better be. I don't think I have any organs left. Who the hell strips to 'Fat-Bottom Girls'?" 

Richie carefully climbed out of bed- he smiled when Eddie made grumbling noises and reached to pull him back- and carefully, _slowly_ went to the kitchen, where he fetched a glass of water and an ibuprofen for Stan. "Don't you become a man this year? Just consider this part of the journey," he said when he knelt on the bathroom floor and hauled Stan's fever-warm head into his lap. 

_"Please_ don't say that when you're only wearing tighty-whities, I beg you," Stan complained into his kneecap as Richie gathered his sweaty blonde curls out of his face. "Anyway, I just broke _so_ many rules. Jews aren't supposed to _get drunk."_

"I've seen your mom drink wine-" 

"- never until she was _drunk_ drunk. Wine is not schnapps." 

Well. He was right about that. 

He helped Stan sit up, then _stand_ up, then lead him back to the bed, where he sat with his head in his hands. By then, Eddie, who hadn't had as much to drink as the larger boys, was also awake. 

"Oh, fuck," Eddie whispered when he glanced at his watch: it was fifteen minutes before noon. "Oh, god, I told mom I'd be home _hours_ ago-" The color drained out of his face. A second later, he swore again. "Fuck! And I didn't take my pills!" He scrambled for his fanny pack, upending a pill bottle onto his palm. 

"Stop." Stan grabbed his wrist as he shoved it towards his mouth. "Taking them all at once is a horrible idea. That's how people _die."_

Eddie stared at the pills held just out of his reach. Maybe people died by taking too many pills at once, his expression seemed to say. But he would certainly die if his mother saw how irresponsible he'd been. 

Richie resolved the tension by grabbing all but one of the capsules from his friend's palm. "I'll flush them. She'll never know." 

Eddie was still white as chalk, but slowly, he nodded. "Promise you won't tell?" he asked quietly, eyes huge. 

"Cross my heart, Eddie Spaghetti. We're the losers. If we don't stick up for each other, who will?" 

While Stan and Eddie changed clothes and brushed their teeth and generally tried not to look so hungover, Richie knelt by Bill's side. 

"I'm checking to see if he's passed out or just asleep," he explained in response to Stan's curious glance. He poked Bill's cheek. When Bill grumbled and batted at his hand, Richie smiled. "Good. Now I'm rolling him onto his side so he doesn't drown in his own puke, just in case." (Bill grumbled a _lot_ at this, so Richie wasn't all that worried.) 

"Your parents get drunk a lot, huh?" Stan asked, stepping into his shoes. 

"Only every other time I've seen them." Which, honestly, wasn't _that_ much. Richie left water, more ibuprofen, and a note within Bill's reach, should he wake up while the other three boys were out. He tucked Bill's hair out of his face and behind his ear- how could he ever have been afraid of him, even for a minute?- and then stood to dress as well. Eddie was quiet and irritable as they wheeled their bikes out of the shed, and Richie knew he was fearing his mother's inevitable wrath. 

Sure enough, she was out on the porch when they pulled into Eddie's neighborhood, phone in hand, looking bug-eyed and ready to pop. Pushing past Richie and Stan, she grabbed her son's arm, half-dragging him off the bicycle. "Eddie-Bear, where have you _been?!"_ she demanded. "I was just about to call the police. I've been worried sick. Why do you _do_ this to me, sweetheart?! I knew I shouldn't have let you stay with such unruly boys." 

"It was my fault, Mrs. K," Richie tried to argue, hating to see how all spirit was sapped from Eddie by his mother's mere presence- he looked less like a boy and more like a doll when she held onto him like that. "We were up too late last night, and we just slept in." 

"Oh, I have no doubt it was _your fault,_ Richard Tozier," she sneered at him. "I know what kind of boy you are. I know everything about your parents and the blasphemous debauchery they teach in their home. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." 

Richie had no idea what she was talking about, but it sounded rude. He clamped his teeth shut over any retorts- much as he'd love to verbally drag her all over Maine, he knew it would only get Eddie in worse trouble. Stan's arm brushed his; the gentlest, reassuring pressure. 

"We didn't mean to, mommy," Eddie said quietly. "It was an accident." He looked up at her with his wide, heavily-lashed eyes, and Richie saw the moment when she softened slightly. He knew he should feel bad for her- the death of her husband had driven her a little crazy, and if any town deserved obsessive protection of one's children, it was _Derry-_ but... 

"We'd better get going," Stan said, and Richie knew he wanted to get out of there before she started making comments about how she didn't approve of how 'those other types' (Jews) lived. When Stan got angry, he froze and became scary, chilly, _quiet._ "See you around, Eddie." 

"We'll see about that," Mrs. K said stonily, and Stan's arm brushing Richie's became a vice clamping on his wrist as he dragged him away. "Keep quiet," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "Do _not_ make it worse." 

"Bye, guys," Eddie called sadly, as they took their separate paths.

Stanley was feeling too crummy to actually ride his bike, so side-by-side they walked in quiet, rolling their bikes along with them like tall dogs. Stanley was right when he said it was getting cooler; soon they'd be approaching sweater weather. The leaves in the trees were beginning to darken as they collectively, beautifully died. 

It was only natural to take a shortcut to the Uris household. Why wouldn't they? They'd taken it a thousand times before with no problems. It was just a quick cut through a little park and then right into his backyard. 

Only, today the park wasn't so empty. 

"Stanley," Richie whispered, catching Stan's arm. "Turn around, quick, before they see-" 

He understood their mistake with sickening clarity. Stanley Uris lived in the same neighborhood as Victor Criss, but as Victor didn't have a lot of scrubby grassland and dump space to hang around in, like Henry, or his own car, like Belch, his house wasn't a primary Bowers Gang hotspot. Evidently, today was an exception. No wonder there were no kids enjoying all the playground equipment on such a lovely Saturday. 

"Well, hey," Henry Bowers said, always on the offensive as he caught sight of the two boys. "I was just saying we needed more targets for shooting practice." He was sitting over the top of a picnic table where people often took advantage of the privacy created by thick trees all around to smoke, get high, or draw pictures of dicks in a wide range of realistic, impressionist, and cartoonist art styles. One or two of Richie's own masterpieces had been artistically rendered on that exact table in black marker. 

Today, it was just the four boys, lounging like lions after a hunt, beer cans in hand. They looked bored and spoiling for a fight. 

"Run," Richie ordered, foregoing subtlety and instead snatching Stan's wrist, dragging him along behind himself. He might have made it, had Stan not still been so foggy-headed and disoriented; had Richie been more willing to let Stan go to save his own skin. 

Henry grabbed Stan by the back of the neck and physically _threw_ him to the ground, where Stan sprawled, wide-eyed and gasping shallowly for breath as all the wind was knocked out of him. _Fuck._ There was nothing for it but to turn and launch himself at the dense taller boy, forcing him away from Stanley before he could actually land a kick. Surprise was his best element; he attacked in a flurry of scratches and punches that had far too little effect for so much effort. 

When Henry at last managed to get Richie in a proper chokehold, he knew he was done for, much as he flailed and scrabbled. _Get up, Stanley,_ he thought, eyes watering as he stared at his friend. _Either save me or run away, but don't just_ lay _there._ They were so fucking screwed, unless... 

"Patrick," Richie choked, turning pleading eyes onto his last resort, who was watching the events unfold with a bored expression on his face. His struggles were growing weaker as Henry's iron arms cut off his air supply, and he felt his knees buckle until Henry was the only thing keeping him upright; swirling black began to eclipse his vision. If something didn't change, Stan would be all alone in this fight. "Would you _fucking do something?!"_

Surely, if he, Richie, supposedly belonged to Patrick, then Patrick wouldn't allow anyone else to snuff him out like this? 

Vic glanced at Patrick, eyebrows raised, and let out a little huffing laugh, amused by Richie's odd and unexpected bid for rescue. "Yeah, Patrick," he goaded. "You gonna fucking do something?" 

Patrick seemed to think this over, and then a smirk crossed his face. "Ohhh- yeah, why the hell not. I got nothing better to do." He handed his beer to Belch, stood, stretched luxuriously, and strolled casually towards the three in the grassy soccer field halfway between the picnic benches and the swingset. 

"The fuck do you-" Henry protested when Patrick oozed over to him and carefully prised the two apart. "Hey- I was-" 

"Let me take care of this one," Patrick smiled brightly at him, before turning his full attention back on the small teenager wheezing and choking in his arms. He smile became a Cheshire grin when directed at Richie, and he tilted his face up with a knuckle to look him over. Richie stared back, no longer afraid, but resigned. 

"Missed me so much you had to come looking for me, puppy?" he asked softly. He slid a hand over Ricie's hair, petting him. Richie was reminded of how gentle he'd been jn the showers just yesterday, with his kisses and whispered praises. How he'd dropped to his knees for Richie like he _wanted_ to make him feel good, and hadn't demanded so much as a handjob in return. Maybe things would be okay after all. 

Then Patrick cocked his left fist back and punched Richie square in the stomach with all the force he had in him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a request to put more specific trigger warnings at the start of each chapter, so here goes: physical violence, antisemetic and homophobic verbal abuse abound in the first half of this chapter.

Richie curled in on himself, his body working without his mind's awareness to belatedly protect his organs from the intense blow. The next punches and kicks landed to his bowed back, the tip of a boot catching him again and again in the kidneys. 

Patrick was _laughing-_ that was the first sound he heard his senses returned to him. The alcohol he'd consumed the night before burned high in the back of his throat, and he fought not to vomit it all back up. Patrick would have enjoyed the spectacle too much. 

Patrick left him to struggle and choke while his body fought to remember how to breathe before stepping over him, a foot on either side of Richie's twitching body, and then he lowered, sitting astride his hips. He waited until Richie dared look at him before delivering his next punch- this one directly to Richie's face that sent his glasses flying. 

There was a ringing in Richie's ears. He saw black spots dance in front of his vision, and still Patrick laughed, running a thumb along the blood from Richie's split lip down his chin. "Oh, _Tozier,"_ he crooned, and rocked his hips- a tiny movement, likely not noticeable to anyone who wasn't directly underneath him, but Richie could feel how excited Patrick had gotten. "You should know _better_ than to ask me for anything. Don't you know by now that favors from me always come at a price?" 

No wonder the bastard hadn't screwed him in the showers- he probably couldn't even get it up unless someone was bleeding and screaming. Was that what that whole episode had been, then? A chance to mess with Richie's head? To lower his guard, and then to... 

"Sometimes I think you're almost real, puppy" Patrick whispered in his ear, his voice sending spidery chills running up Richie's spine. "But you can't be. You're just far too perfect. I had to have invented you. And one day, I'm going to kill you." He giggled, eyes wide and dancing-mad from the thrill of violence. 

"Quit reading him poetry, Hockstetter," Henry grunted, sounding very far off. "The little Jew queer is- _ow, fuck,_ \- trying to get away!" 

Breath returned to Richie's lungs like an explosion and he heaved under Patrick's weight, growing lightheaded with the return of oxygen. He could move again, sort of, but Patrick's punch had landed just under his breastbone and the bone-deep ache made each gasp feel like other, smaller punches. 

"Just a second, Henry," Patrick said sweetly, glancing up from Richie. "Almost finished." 

Richie tried to use his momentary distraction to wriggle out from underneath him- he rolled fully onto his stomach to do so, got his hands and knees underneath his body and began to crawl away- but was dragged back by a hand on his ankle. "I'm not done playing with you yet, Tozier." 

"Guys," Belch called from the picnic table. "Don't you think that's-" 

Richie glanced up in time to see a very blurry Henry grappling with Stan. Stan was putting up a pretty good fight, as displayed by the blood dripping steadily from Henry's nose. Richie was briefly overcome with a fierce pride for the boy. _That's my Stan._ It warmed and sustained him, gave him the strength to kick out again. His sneaker contacted with something solid: _Patrick's face._

This had started out as just another chance to put the fear of worse things than God in some Loser boys. This fight had quickly become personal as the boys managed to land some blows of their own. Now it was no longer fun and games to Henry Bowers: it was a direct challenge to his pride. "You stay there!" he shouted to someone- Stan? Belch and Victor?- and Stan grunted. 

Patrick recovered from the kick to his face in record time; Richie only just managed to get back to his feet before an arm wrapped firmly around his neck and hauled him back to his chest. "You should fight back more often," he panted, no longer bothering to lower his voice, which sounded thick as though his lips had swollen. "It's so much more fun when you do." 

Richie had had enough. Every word out of Patrick's mouth felt like slimy tongues trailing along his skin and leaving a thin film of scum behind. Deal or no deal, he wanted to feed this bastard his own teeth. If it were just him, that'd be one thing, but now he had to go and drag Stan into it too, and that was unacceptable. 

He drove his elbow as hard as he could into every part of Patrick's body that he could reach. "Get the fuck off me!" he screeched. "Go to _hell,_ you fucking-" But then he froze, dead in his tracks. 

Because Henry hooked two dirty fingers in Stan Uris' mouth, jerking his face to the side like he was a fish caught on a line, and then he popped his open palm down hard on Stanley's ear.

It was a tiny movement; harmless-looking from where Richie was standing; but based on the glassy look that came over Stan's eyes, it was not harmless at all. He fell to the ground like his off-button switch had been pushed, and Henry let him, then stepped closer. 

Richie struggled like mad in Patrick's hold with only one thought on his mind: _Get to Stan. Get to Stan._ Get to Stan _before Henry does anything worse!_

"It's kind of rude when I'm standing right here and your attention is on other people." Patrick didn't seem to feel the pain of Richie's clawing and biting, but his grip was loosened slightly at the crazed twisting, and with another sharp kick Richie managed to get away long enough to fling himself protectively between Stan and Henry, teeth bared in an attempt at a growl even as his feet struggled in the dirt to push Stan away. 

"If you _ever_ touch him again-" he snarled, and was humiliated when his voice broke on the third word. He was just a kid, and Henry, while not much older, had something that looked a lot like death in his eyes. 

Patrick approached Henry, resting his chin on the shorter boy's shoulder, smiling like a jack-o-lantern with new fire in his eyes. Henry had his knife. Patrick had _Stan's_ knife, the one he'd taken from Richie that night at the Niebolt house. And Patrick was gazing at Henry with an expression Richie might have coined love-struck, had it not been so blood-thirsty. For Patrick, perhaps the two were one and the same. 

_Now who's paying attention to other people?_ The stray thought surprised Richie. He tried to brush it away and focus. 

In the dirt, Stan's fumbling hand found Richie's, and Richie squeezed his fingers. If they wanted to get to Stan, they'd have to go through Richie first. And that was looking more likely by the second. 

Begging was useless. He knew this already. It would only make this all the sweeter for them, but he still would have done it for Stan's sake, if only he thought that Henry wasn't too far gone to hear him. 

Something behind Patrick's shoulder caught his eye, and Richie was distracted, momentarily, to see _Beverly Marsh_ running across the park, her long colt's-legs pumping frantically and her scarlet hair whipping behind her like a banner. She ran, unnoticed, right past the group like the devil was chasing her and off to the houses on the other side. 

"Look at me!" Henry demanded, so close Richie could have counted his freckles, a stray hint of spittle hitting Richie's cheek beside where Patrick's knuckles had broken the skin of his lip open, and Richie's eyes snapped back to his face. "You losers just run around like you think you own the place. _How many times_ are we going to have to teach you-" He fell silent as, behind Richie, a car door opened loudly. 

"Boys!" 

"Oh, _fuck."_

"Officer Bowers-" 

Victor and Belch bolted, fleeing the fight and the beer in their wild scramble, but the approaching footsteps were coming straight for Henry with no concern to the actions of the other teens. "Is that my knife, son?" a smooth male voice questioned. 

"I- yes, dad." For once in all the years Richie had known him, Henry Bowers actually looked afraid. His face went quite pale. He sheathed the knife, held it out like an offering on his palm. 

"Hockstetter, put that fucking thing away. You're disrupting the peace." Officer Bowers came into Richie's field of vision when he stepped close enough to snatch the blade out of Henry's hand. Patrick, at a sharp glance from Henry, pocketed his own knife. 

"Well, now. Who do we got here." The officer knelt down, looking Richie square in the face with bemused blue eyes, looking, at best, mildly annoyed at the commotion. Now that he was close enough for Richie to see, the resemblance to his son was striking. "The Tozier boy, yes? And who's that one trembling underneath you?" He grabbed a fistful of Stan's curls out of his face to properly look him over. "Ain't you that Jew kid? Donnie Uris' boy?" 

Evidently, an answer wasn't expected, and that was good, because Richie couldn't have formed a response if he tried. Already, Butch Bowers was returning his focus to what really mattered here. 

"My god, Henry," he said softly. "You really, honestly think beating on sissy-boys like them makes you a _man?"_ He snorted, taking in the trail of blood still oozing out of Henry's nose. "And you can't even do that right. You make me sick to my stomach." 

_What,_ Richie thought in numb disbelief, _would constitute the 'right way' to beat on them?_ Was Henry supposed to have _actually_ maimed them before getting caught? 

More voices were fast approaching; familiar voices. At last, Richie could close his eyes, breathe in a sigh of relief. They were _safe._

Beverly Marsh lead the charge, quickly followed by Mr. and Mrs. Uris, who ran straight for the boys. So her running through the park hadn't just been a casual afternoon sprint; she'd been going to get help after all. 

"Stanley!" Mrs. Uris exclaimed, and Richie at last was able to move off of him, slipping to the side so that she could drag Stan into her arms and squeeze him in a tight embrace. Richie patted around in the grass until he found his glasses, then groaned when he realized the hinge attaching the leg to the frame had been knocked loose. They now sat crooked on his face. 

"Stanley, honey, what happened?!" 

"My ear," Stan explained to his mother. He was half-shouting, though they could all hear him perfectly. "He did something to my _ear."_

Rabbi Uris took his son's arm, walking him quickly back to his house while Butch grabbed Henry and Patrick by the elbows and dragged them up, forcing them into the squad car. Henry would not look at his father, but only to the side, shoulders slumped, accepting his word as God's law without question. Patrick only blinked at the officer, unafraid even as he got right up in his face.   

"Control your son!" Mrs. Uris shouted, face pink in anger with her fists balled at her sides, the second Butch slammed the car door closed and turned his attention back to the group. She barely came up to Butch Bowers' shoulder, but for a moment, Richie thought that she was about to throw a punch of her own. "He's a _menace!_ Look what he did to my babies!" 

Butch sneered, looking her up and down. "Ma'am," he said it like he was calling her a dirty word. "You're using an aggressive tone towards an officer of the law. I do control my son. He will be punished." 

"What, by _beating_ him?!" At the slight change in the officer's expression, Andrea pressed further. "That's right, Butch, _everyone_ knows what you do to that boy. You don't think that _maybe_ he's reflecting his father's behavior?" 

Butch radiated the same aura that Henry did. A, _not-quite-right_ aura. An aura that suggested he, too, would look more at home with a knife in his hand and blood on his face, so Derry, of course, gave him a badge and a uniform and a gun. Richie wanted to pull Andrea away from him, but he could barely move. 

Rabbi Uris pulled the car just around the corner from where it'd been parked in front of the house, with Stan sitting quietly in the backseat, eyes down. Then the rabbi stepped out of the car and approached his wife, speaking quietly in her ear. Shooting Butch one last poisonous scowl, Andrea hurried to sit with her son. 

"A little playground wrestling is all, _Rabbi."_ Butch told the thinner man, a smile curling his lips. "No doubt it's good for the boys. It'll teach them to toughen up in due time, and between you and I, those two little bean-bags you got there could use a toughening." 

"I'm going to have to disagree with you, officer," the rabbi said, stretched to his full height and peering over his bifocals at the other man with just as much distaste as his wife had. "We believe in teaching our children kindness and acceptance." 

"Hm." Now Butch had an expression that looked as though he were smelling ripe garbage. "Agree to disagree, then, Donnie. Good day." 

He turned for his squad car, where Patrick and Henry were still seated. Henry looked mutinous. Patrick's face had gone eerily blank, as though nothing was happening in his mind at all. A smear of Richie's blood was visibly drying on his cheek. 

The Rabbi knelt, groaning at the strain to his weak knees, and looked Richie in the eye. Behind him, the squad car shifted gear and pulled onto the main road, ignoring the speed limit signs and roaring off further into town, carrying the source of Richie's nightmares off with it. No lights; no cuffs, and no sirens: this wasn't an arrest. It was a slap on the wrist and a free ride home. 

"You need to come with us, Richie," he said softly. "We can't tell how badly you were hurt. We'll pay for it, just please-" 

Richie was already shaking his head. "No, sir. I don't want to do that. I think I'm just going to go home." 

"Richie," Donald Uris removed his own glasses, wiped them on the tail of his shirt, and put them back on. He looked older than Richie had ever seen him; graying at the temples, bags forming under his eyes. "Be reasonable. Just come home with us. I'm sorry your parents- well. I'm sorry they are the way they are. It's time to cut our losses. We _can't lose you_ because of their irresponsibility. You know that I consider you-" 

If Richie heard him say, _'my son,'_ he thought half-hysterically, his heart might actually shatter into pieces. He couldn't bear it. "Sir!" he cut in, and maybe Donald heard the break in his voice, because he fell silent for a long moment. 

"Richie," he tried again. "We can talk about it later, but please, please just get in the car. Let us take care of you for _once."_

They already took care of him. They did it by setting an extra plate for him at their table. For laughing at his jokes. For listening to his stories, no matter how ridiculous. For scolding him when he swore. For the way Andrea kissed his forehead before bed as well as Stanley's, as though she saw no difference between them. 

Patrick Hockstetter was going to kill him. He'd said it himself, and Richie believed him. That much was true no matter what home he was staying in. And if others tried to get in the way, well, it would be all the worse for them. 

"No, sir," he said firmly. "I'm not going to do that. I'm going home now." 

"But you can't leave here alone in your condition!" Donald looked as though Richie were making him want to rip out his own thinning hair. "Don't you understand? Someone is going around town taking children. And if you were the next one, then I- I would-" 

"He's not alone. I'm going with him," Beverly cut in, quite unexpectedly. She strode purposefully past Richie, then turned to glare impatiently at him. "Well, come on!" 

"Are you sure, Richie?" Rabbi Uris asked, the last flicker of hope dying in his eyes. His big, warm hand on Richie's shoulder was almost too much; it burned. Richie resisted the urge to pull away, and shook his head no. 

"Don't worry about it. I'm tough." He forced a smile. "Just make sure Stan's okay." 

Even more unexpected than Beverly's declaration was the way the Rabbi abruptly grabbed him and held him tight. He'd never hugged him before. "Thank you for what you did, Richie," he said in the boy's ear, and his voice was really shaking now. "I know my Stanley is always safe with you." 

Richie grit his teeth to hide the pain this caused his sore ribs. He wished that what the Rabbi said was true, that he was at all capable of protecting his friends in the slightest. He'd just proved to Stan and everyone else on the block exactly how much of a failure he really was. 

"I'm getting blood on your clothes," he said quietly, noticing his bleeding lip staining the collar of the man's shirt. He didn't want to be held by an adult, by a man who he sometimes, shamefully, imagined to be his father. He didn't _deserve_ to be. 

For a moment, Rabbit Uris only _looked_ at him. Richie wondered what he saw when he did so. A skinny, smart-mouthed brat with broken glasses and a face that screamed _'punch me'?_

"You know you can come to me for anything, Richie," the rabbi said. "Andrea, Stanley, and I care for you very, very much." 

While Richie was still half-frozen in shame, he carefully extricated himself from the boy as he stood up and went to meet his wife and son in their car. 

Richie couldn't watch him go. The guilt was rising too high. Soon it'd be spilling out of his mouth and ears and eyes along with the thin streams of blood. He heard the station wagon roll off in the same direction as Butch Bower's squad car. Then Beverly was back, and she reached for his arm. 

"Don't," he said, though he wouldn't have had the energy to stop her. One more person touching him just now might have crumbled him to dust, but since when did anyone _listen_ when he didn't want them to touch him? 

Apparently, Beverly Marsh did. Her hand dropped without so much as grazing his shirt, and she silently watched him struggle to his feet and limp over to where he'd dropped his bike. She lit a cigarette as she waited, and offered it to him after taking the first puff. Her red lipgloss rimmed the filter, but he took a drag anyway before handing it back, and coughed quietly so as to not upset his aching bones. 

"If you're looking to get laid, I'm the wrong guy for you," he grunted, using his bike as a crutch as he walked along. 

"If you're looking to get punched again, keep talking," she replied with a grim sort of smile. "Maybe some people actually _want_ to help you, Trashmouth. Like that preacher guy." 

"Rabbi." 

"Yeah; him, I mean." 

He digested this as they jaywalked- there weren't any cars around anymore anyway- and made it to the side of the street lined by stores, silently passing by Dollies. People gave them strange looks as they walked through the main part of town- he knew his face was messed up, and Beverly Marsh _always_ looked a little bruised and disreputable- the cigarette didn't help. Nobody said anything to them, though. 

"Hey Trashmouth!" some no-life who had graduated Derry High two years prior shouted out of the window of his truck as he sped by. "Watch out for that one- she'll give you crabs!" 

In unison, Richie and Beverly gave him the middle finger and continued walking. 

"You don't have to take me all the way home, you know," he pointed out as the truck rounded a corner and disappeared. "That was just to get the Uris' to leave." 

"I know." she paused. "But I'm going to." 

He groaned a little, but his bruised and swollen lips twisted into a wry smile despite themselves. _Stubborn idiot._ He almost liked her for that alone. Almost. 

They made the rest of the way to the hill leading up to Richie's driveway in silence. Beverly actually whistled. 

"I didn't know you guys were rich." 

"You a gold-digger as well as the town bicycle?" 

The look she shot him then was so frosty that he actually, for once, shut his mouth. "Being a dick to me won't fix your problems, Tozier," she snarled. 

Bill's bike was no longer in the driveway, he noticed glumly. The kid must have woken and taken off while they were gone, to feed his hamster and check on whether his parents had killed themselves in his absence. 

"What do you know about it?" He tripped knocking his bike's kickstand down, and would have fallen, had she not dove to catch him and haul him upright. 

"Oh- fuck," he whimpered, eyes tearing at the pain her hand around his chest elected. "Bev, stop, please stop, you're killing me, _ow-"_

Looking alarmed, she lowered him to the grassy, slanted hill-ground, then knelt over him. Her long, tangled hair really did catch fire in the sun, he observed, looking up at her through streaming eyes. 

"What do you want me to do, Tozier, leave you out here?!" she sounded angry, but he could tell now that that was a mask for anxiety. 

"It _is_ a nice day..." he said, offering her what he thought was a beseeching smile. Her glare told him she wasn't buying it. 

"Gimme your keys," she said, holding her palm out in a no-nonsense manor. "I'm going to go inside and call you an ambulance. You _need_ to go to the hospital. That bugshit Hockstetter probably broke something-" 

_"No."_ He ground out between gritted teeth. "Hospitals are for people like Stanley, or Eddie Kaspbrak. People who have parents to make sure the adults don't try anything stupid, or ask things they shouldn't, or try and take them away." He was running his mouth, he realized, and worked to shut up. It was hard to _beep-beep_ himself, but he tried. 

He was surprised to see that his babble had some effect on her. Her hard-lined eyes softened fractionally. She chewed her lower lip as she thought. 

"Then I'll carry you," she decided, and his eyes boggled because he could tell at a glance that she was _serious._

"Uphill?!" he scoffed. "It's steep! And you're not _that_ much bigger than me!" But god help him, if he didn't see the same stubborn determination in her eyes that he often saw in Bill's. She wouldn't be easily dissuaded. 

"I'm stronger than I look," she said, and that was that. 

She shuffled around, and, laughing a little at the absurdity of it all, he sat up to latch his arms around her neck. One agonizing bounce to get him adjusted and for her to catch his legs, and then she was carrying him on her back up the driveway and into the house. He was still laughing as he rested his cheek- the right one; it hurt less- on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and allowed it to happen. 

She used the key he handed her to unlock the door (redoubling her grip on his right knee just at her hip) and then, as gently as she could manage, shook him off of her at the nearest chair, collapsing next to him a second later. 

"Mind if I smoke?" she asked, already pulling a pack of Carnival cigarettes out of her shorts pocket and fumbling for her book of matches as he grit his teeth to ride out the radiating pain. 

"Beverly, my deah," he said, in his old Southern Money voice. "You could light this whole gawd-forsaken house a-fire and I wouldn't lift a finger to stop you." 

She squinted at him as she lit up. "Do you always use goofy voices when you don't want people to know that you actually mean something? Does that make it less real for you, like, 'ha-ha, only joking', but not?" 

For the second time that afternoon, she had silenced him. She looked apologetic at whatever raw expression crossed his face. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I always do that. That's probably why I don't have any friends." 

"Probably!" he agreed sweetly, his grin only doubling when she stuck her tongue out at him. "Ow! Stop making me smile, it hurts my face." 

"Serves you right, Jerkmouth."

When she leaned her head on his shoulder, he allowed it. It was a combination of how much she reminded him of Bill and the fact that she was a girl about his size, but also because he _knew_ she didn't mean anything by it. Reputation or no, it was as innocent a gesture as Georgie reaching for Bill's hand. He closed his eyes and breathed in the weirdly pleasant smell of cigarettes and berry lipgloss. 

"Bev, why were you outside the library that night?" he asked. 

"Why did you go away with Patrick Hockstetter?" she countered. 

A question for a question. It seemed fair. "It's an agreement we have. To protect someone," he answered. It was the closest to a confession he could come just yet. "Your turn." 

She bit her lip, popping her knuckles compulsively. "My dad... isn't good to be around when he's drinking," she said carefully. 

It could have meant anything. Maybe he yelled. Maybe he hit her. 

Richie didn't think so. 

He breathed in, breathed out. She was twirling the key he'd handed her idly between her fingers, so he reached and pressed it into her hand, closing her fingers around it and making a mental note to grab the spare from the kitchen cupboard for himself later. "Don't hide outside next time. Come here. You don't even have to talk to me or whatever if you don't want to, just storm in like you own the place." 

She blinked disbelievingly, then tried to hand it back. "Your parents-" 

"- are never here. And when they are, they're usually drunk. And when they're here and sober, they still don't give a shit. Waltz straight past them and into my room wearing nothing but the Maine state flag as a toga and I guarantee you they still won't care." 

She laughed at that, then sobered again. "We don't even _know_ each other. I could be a crazy person for all you know." 

"Oh, I _know_ you are." (She flipped him off again.) "Seriously. Go nuts. Steal everything. Burn it down. You're right- I wasn't kidding. _I. Don't. Care. Anymore."_

She had one final question for him before she would accept the key. "You're really not just trying to get in my pants? Usually when guys are nice to me, that's why. And then when I say no, they get nasty." 

He grinned at her, ignoring the pain in his face. "Oh no, Beverly, you've seen right through me. What will I do without your gorgeous luscious self in my loving arms? Cleopatra. Helen of Troy. Aphrodite herself- they have _nothing_ on your beauty. I cry myself to sleep every night. I pine for you. Lay your body on me now, girl, because I-" 

He supposed he deserved the sharp elbow she dug into his ribs for that. He was still laughing even as he groaned and tried to curl in on himself. 

"Just remember. We are _not_ friends." 

"Well, obviously."


	8. Chapter 8

Richie stayed home all day Sunday and, upon waking at his usual time Monday morning, felt too sore to get out of bed in time to go to school. _Fuck it._ What were they gonna do- call his parents? He dry-swallowed expired pain pills from the yellow basket in the kitchen cabinet, briefly considered digging around his mother's bathroom cabinet for the lipstick case of Oxycodone he knew she hid in there, and then decided that probably wasn't the best idea. For now.

He fell back asleep on the couch, bundled in a blanket, until the ringing of the landline phone woke him. He let it ring until the answering machine picked up. 

"Richard? This is Donnie. Uh, Mr. Uris. We haven't heard from you since Saturday, and wondered if you were doing okay. Stan's fine; his eardrum didn't rupture, thank the stars, but he'll have bad tinnitus for a few days. Call us when you get out of school, okay? Maybe you can come over for dinner..." 

The message ended. Feeling lousier than ever- _he_ should have called to ask about _Stan,_ but he knew the conversation would just devolve right back into trying to get Richie to stay permanently with the Uris family. He didn't know if he'd have the strength to hold out a second time. 

Mom talked about people acting like this sometimes. What was it called? Depression. As in, _Oh, Aunt Bessie has a case of the depression._ Like it was a cold or the flu, to be wiled away with chicken noodle soup and reruns of _Roseanne_ on TV. 

Thinking of chicken noodle soup reminded Richie that he hadn't eaten since... when? Sunday morning? He should probably eat something. 

He didn't feel like it. 

He pulled the sofa cushion back over his head and held still until he could fall asleep again. Hours passed. A small rain began to fall, then ceased, then picked up again. It drizzled on and off all afternoon. Then- 

Four phone rings. The answering machine picking up: _'Hi, you've reached the Tozier household-'_ Déjà fucking vu. 

"R-R-Richie, pick up." a long pause. "Richie, I k-know you're h-home." An even longer pause. "Richie!" 

Damn, Bill wasn't taking a hint. He waited on the other line, then huffed in irritation. 

"W-we need to t-talk. Stan t-told us w-w-what happened. W-with, with Hockstetter." 

Maybe if Richie curled up tighter, the couch would swallow him whole. 

"Eddie t-told me some suh-stuff, too. R-Richie, I'm _s-scared._ I c-can't t-t-take m-much more of t-this." The stuttering worsened as Bill grew more upset. Like telling him would make him any _less_ upset! Richie had half a mind to snatch the phone off the cradle and shout at the top of his lungs. _I'm fucking him and eventually he's gonna kill me! Big deal, Bill, let it the fuck go!_

Funny. He'd started this mess to keep Bill safe, and now all he'd apparently done was scare him more. He really couldn't do anything right. 

The next time Bill spoke, it was with new assertion. "R-Richie, if you d-don't answer me and t-tell me you're still _alive_ at least, I suh- _swear_ I'm gonna bike over there right n-now and-" 

Richie rolled off the couch- oh hello, ribs, nice to know you can still _scream_ \- crammed his damaged glasses back onto his face, snatched the phone, and held it to his ear. "Are you _fucking_ happy now, you little bitch?!" he snapped, letting all the rage and vitriol he'd been accumulating for days spray out in his words. 

He'd never spoken to Bill like that before, and a part of him regretted it immediately. The other part... the other part of him wanted to keep shouting at Bill until he cried, until he never wanted to call Richie again. He bit down hard on that part of himself and waited for the fallout. 

"N-nice to hear f-from you t-too, Rich." Bill did indeed sound cold now. _Great. Here comes the guilt._ Here was the time to smooth Bill's feelings, make it into a joke. 

He found he didn't have it in him to play nice, not even a little. He did soften his tone, though. 

"I don't want to talk, Bill." 

"N-n-not r-right n-now, or n-n-not ever?" 

"I'm never going to want to talk about this." There. As close to admitting that there was, in fact, a 'this' as he could. Confirming that Bill was right to worry. Confirming Stanley's observations and Eddie's suspicions in one damning swoop. 

"Then... honest q-question, Richie: w-what do you n-need us for?" 

Oh, this wasn't going to a good place. "What are you talking about, Bill?" Richie sighed, and winced when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the hall mirror. The left of his face was a rainbow of bruising; radiating dark indigo where knuckles actually struck jaw and lip, rising into poison-green and apple-yellow as it faded outwards. Patrick had really not been holding back; he was lucky none of his teeth had cracked. 

"We're your fuh-friends, and all you ever d-do to us luh-lately is _lie. I _h-hate_ it when you l-lie to m-m-me!"_

"What are you saying?" Richie hardly dared voice the rising fear in his chest. "You don't want to be friends with me anymore?" 

Bill paused. Richie wondered if his stuttering had grown so bad that he couldn't talk anymore, or if he just didn't know what to say. "It's a yes or no question, Denbrough," he goaded, though he knew he shouldn't push. If he pushed- 

Bill hung up on him, leaving Richie alone and empty, holding the phone as the dial tone clamored. 

Well, then. 

Moving like a puppet with half its strings cut, Richie hung the phone up. He walked first to the kitchen and snatched three pieces of bread from the bag of store-sliced he'd just bought, cramming them all into his mouth and tasting nothing. 

He chewed and swallowed and stripped his clothes off as he walked straight into the shower, where, on auto-pilot, he shampooed his hair and soaped his body in lukewarm spray. As long as he kept his eyes closed, he didn't have to look at the other bruises he'd obtained. 

Brushing his teeth was an experience- half his jaw felt like it'd been crunched in a trash compactor, so he was extra ginger when he scrubbed them. When he spat into the sink, the foam was pink from blood. He stared at it for far too long as it dripped down the drains. _Wish I could go down there,_ he thought nonsensically. 

_"Oh, you can,"_ a voice that was half in his mind and half-rising from the plumbing cooed up to him. _"You will, very soon. You'll come down here, and then we'll float together, forever. I miss playing with you, Richie!"_

"What the fuck!" he took a rapid step back from the sink, dropping his toothbrush in alarm. "Holy _shit-"_ It sounded like a little boy's voice in those drains. It sounded like- 

"This is insane," he told himself firmly. "You're going fucking crazy." Georgie Denbrough was not hanging out in the pipes of his bathroom sink. Sorry; nope, no way. Was not happening. He'd lost it. He'd flown right over the cuckoo's nest and out the other side. "That is some flat-out nope right there." 

_"You were so mean to my big brother."_ Georgie sounded like he was pouting, in that way he always did when he didn't get his way. Lower lip sticking out, blue eyes lowered petulantly. _"He's not gonna love you anymore. Nobody will miss you when you're gone. Nobody will even notice. Nobody will cry for poor Richie."_

"That's it, I'm out of here." Richie didn't bother to so much as comb his hair before he was walking- not running, because he _wasn't_ scared, even if his pounding heart was telling him otherwise, even though he had to walk backwards because he didn't dare turn his back on the sink. 

He was walking very fast by the time he reached the front door, though, and he didn't bother to grab a coat before climbing onto his bicycle. Sure, pedaling so fast was agony on his bruised and sore body, but he still wasn't running, because there wasn't anything to run from. Of course. 

Was the sun already setting? Had he lost two and a half days to his bad mood? Damn. 

He coasted down Jackson street and past the Barrens, noticing the early-fall chill raise the hair on his arms, feeling lost and adrift without an anchor to hold him down. _"W-what do you n-need us for, Richie?"_

He already wished he could take back his harsh words to Bill. They were a mistake. A big, fat, ugly mistake, and he should pedal right on over to Bill's house and squeeze him breathless and say sorry a million-and-a-half times, and maybe pretend to kiss him or something until Bill made fake-barfing noises, and all would be normal again- 

But his treacherous, cowardly feet took him right past Bill's house and onto the next block over, and the next. He made a sharp left along Broadway before he realized where he was going. 

_He's probably not even home,_ he thought, annoyed with himself as he circled the neighborhood of moderate-sized houses. _You don't even know which house is his- what, do you expect it to have bats and spiders all over it? Maybe a little lightening hitting the roof?_

He didn't see any of that, but he did recognize a certain bicycle in front of an innocuous, single-story house that looked like all the other houses on the street, and he sighed. _Well._

Richie felt that same out-of-body numbness come over him as he carefully dismounted his bike and left it right next to Patrick's, then walked to the front door and knocked. _He probably won't answer,_ he thought. _If he doesn't answer, I promise I'll go to Bill's house._ He didn't know if he was making that promise to God, or to the Georgie-voice he'd heard in his sink. He wasn't sure he believed in either. 

The door opened. Patrick, half a green apple in one hand, leaned against the doorframe. He chewed, swallowed, smiled. "Oh hey, Tozier," he greeted, affable, as though they were long-time friends and it was only perfectly logical that Richie would show up on a Monday night. "Hey, give me a second, okay?" 

He turned his back and left, leaving Richie to stare after him, unable to formulate a proper response. He'd left the door open, though... 

Richie took a cautious step inside. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some triggering non-con in this chapter, of the physically forced variety.

Patrick's living room was shockingly normal. A yellow sofa and a red chair surrounded a coffee table took up most of the narrow space. A dusty piano- nothing like the grand majesty Bill's mother played on, but a modest, boxy thing- was tucked in a corner and topped with framed photographs. In the opposite corner was a glass-fronted cabinet filled with a collection of plastic Kewpie dolls. 

More to avoid the creepy, staring eyes of the dolls than anything else, Richie turned his attention to the photographs on the piano. Most of the pictures were of Patrick throughout different stages of his life: baby, toddler, child, Richie's age... The last one looked to be quite new; he recognized the shirt Patrick was wearing in it. 

The largest picture in the center drew Richie's eye. It was clearly professionally taken at JC Penney- Stan's family had a picture like that, with the same blue backdrop- and featured four people. A man and a woman wearing last generation's fashions sat around a child- young Patrick- who held in his arms... a baby? 

Richie heard someone enter the room behind him. Assuming it to be Patrick, he said, "I didn't know you had a brother." 

"Yes," said a quiet woman's voice, and Richie spun around, eyes wide. A faded, ghost-like woman who resembled fragments of the vibrant, lively one in a handful of the photographs stood in the entryway, gray-brown hair hanging limply to her shoulders and hands clasped in front of her as though she wasn't quite sure what to do with them. She _looked_ like someone who collected Kewpie dolls. 

"M-Mrs. Hockstetter?" Richie stuttered, caught off guard. She lifted her chin and, when they met eyes, he saw that she had Patrick's same sea-colored eyes, but while on his face they looked crazed and stormy, hers merely looked sad. 

"Yes, hello," she said, after a moment too long of staring blankly at him. "You'll be the Tozier's son, right? I've heard your father play his cello before. Such beautiful music..." 

"Um." Richie scrabbled for words, tried to force himself to stop _staring_ at her. It was like Patrick had been shrunk in the wash with too much bleach and dressed in a drab, oversized skirt. "Yes, he... he still plays. Plays the hell out of it!" 

She came to stand beside him in front of the piano. She was only a few inches taller than he; her waist was as small as a doll's, and the belt of her denim skirt encircled it so tightly it looked like it hurt. "I went to school with Wentworth. Of course, he was several years my junior, but I don't forget faces, and you wear his well." 

"... Thanks." Richie had never considered himself to particularly resemble his father, but what did he know? He rarely even saw the man. 

"My baby died." It was such an abrupt change of topic that, again, Richie was left speechless for a long second. She pointed to the photograph that had caught his attention. "Little Avery. He died in his crib..." 

To his horror, her eyes brimmed abruptly with tears, and they slipped fast as quicksilver down her sunken cheeks. The rest of her face didn't change from its blank stare. It was as though she was unaware that she was even crying, like it happened so often that it didn't even register as an anomaly. Absolutely nothing in Richie's short life had prepared him for how to respond to Patrick's mother crying over her dead baby. 

"Mrs. Hockstetter..." 

"Christ, mom. Stop talking about Avery." Patrick's reappearance, now sans apple, in the doorway caused them both to turn. Now that they were all in the same room, Richie could see more similarities in their appearance: their clear, moon-pale skin; that square chin; the Grecian nose. 

His long fingers wrapped all the way around her upper arm as he steered her away from Richie. He used his free hand to swipe tears from her cheeks with the pad of one thumb, casual as can be, like bursting into tears with little to no prompting was a daily occurrence for her that he was long used to dealing with. "Why don't you go make some coffee?" he said, almost pleasantly, as he nudged her towards a door. "We're going to my room. Don't bother us." 

It was that easy. She didn't even offer a word of protest to her son manhandling her, and stepped obediently into the kitchen. Richie couldn't begin to fathom ordering his own mother around like that. 

Patrick turned the full weight of his stare back on Richie and brought his own hand to his mouth to lick away the damp tears that had slipped between his fingers. Richie tried not to shudder. He was no Eddie Kaspbrak when it came to obsessing over hygiene, but... _Ick._

"Mother's tears; sure beats tit-milk, huh?" he asked, because joking about unfunny things was his best defense against madness. 

Patrick wasn't listening. He just stood, crowding Richie against the piano. "That bruise looks good on you," he said calmly, as though he hadn't been the one to give it. Patrick's own lips were still swollen from where Richie had kicked him; he had his own bruise taking up the corner of his mouth and his chin from the heel of Richie's sneaker. 

"I could say the same." Richie could hardly believe what he was saying. He wondered if Patrick felt the same tension leeching into the room as he did. 

"Come on," the older boy said, and turned down the only hallway, past the kitchen where Mrs. Hockstetter was bent over her coffeepot, and past a series of doors. Richie followed, a little bemused that the usual panic he felt around Patrick had not set in yet. As though giving a house tour, Patrick pointed to the doors they passed. "Bathroom. Avery's room." (The long-dead baby still had his own room?) "This one's mine." 

Richie braced himself as Patrick pushed the door open, morbid curiosity making moths flutter in his stomach. At first glance, it wasn't much. Smaller than even the smallest room in Richie's house, it was painted a soft blue. It was messy, sure, but not unusually so. There were no eviscerated animals rotting in the corners under the piles of clothes. No dead kids stitched into the plain white sheets. No maces or iron maidens or pears of anguish. 

Then it dawned on him that there was no _anything else_ either. No band posters. No magazine clippings of naked women. No guitar or skateboard or map of the world stuck with pins or comic books or even some goddamn creepy Kewpie dolls... it was the bare bones of a room, soulless; blank like the expression Patrick often wore when sitting idle. Somehow, that chilled Richie more. 

"Do I scare you?" Patrick asked, making Richie jump. He sounded only mildly curious. 

"I mean..." Richie blinked at him behind his glasses. "Yes? You beat the shit out of me on Saturday. What the hell was that about, anyway, huh? I ask you for help, and you-" 

Patrick flopped back onto the bed, stretching his long legs out so that they hung over the edge of the twin mattress. "Close the door," he said. Richie fidgeted. That didn't sound like a good idea. But arguing with Patrick didn't sound good, either. _You don't get to argue with me..._ He gingerly closed it. 

"I'm curious as to why you think I owe you anything," Patrick said, still in that smooth, unruffled tone. "Our agreement was very straightforward. You are mine, and I leave Denbrough alone. But you're glaring at me as though I broke any part of that agreement. Have I laid a hand on Denbrough?" 

He hadn't. He hadn't so much as looked at Bill. 

"It's kind of a shitty bargain, though, don't you think?" Richie licked his suddenly dry lips, shifted his weight from foot to foot. The wood of the door brushed his back. "You don't have to _do_ anything. But me? What are the limitations to my bargain, huh? I want more from you." 

He could hardly believe his own boldness. Surely, Patrick would laugh in his face; laugh at him like he'd laughed while beating him senseless in the park. Making deals with bullying maniacs: Richie didn't have to be the smartest guy in Derry to see why that was a stupid idea. 

A hint of interest flashed in Patrick's cool eyes; lightening in the distance. He rolled onto his side, still regarding Richie. "What more do you want from me?" 

Oh, that was a tough one. Richie was reminded of how Patrick had listened to his requests not to leave more marks on his body or call him 'puppy' in the shower, and knew he had to word this carefully. "I get favors," he said. "For everything extra I do for you, I get a... a mental coupon. So like, when I asked for your help in the park? You were supposed to _fucking help me."_ He was getting angry again just remembering it. 

"You want special treatment." 

Was he _trying_ to make Richie feel stupid?! If so, it was working. "Yes, goddamn it! After all the shit you put me through? You're goddamn right I think I deserve special treatment from you." 

Patrick's lips twitched in a fleeting, almost pitying smile. "You aren't my _boyfriend,_ Tozier. You're my toy. How many 'favors' do you owe your bike or your TV?" 

Richie wouldn't let himself be budged, though the comparison to everyday objects gave him that same slimy sensation Patrick always left him with. "I take care of that stuff. I don't let other people junk it up. _You_ let Bowers hurt me." 

Patrick sat up on the bed, so suddenly that Richie flinched back into the door. A cowardly response, but he couldn't help himself. Embarrassed he'd shown this weakness, he straightened again, fixed a cool glare on Patrick. 

The older boy beckoned him closer. He was still touching the door. He could run- even with his longer legs, Patrick would have a bitch of time catching Richie before he managed to get out the door and back on his bike. That wouldn't help this negotiation though, would it? 

He let himself be guided between Patrick's bent knees, offered no resistance as the hem of his t-shirt was pushed up to expose his stomach. "Wow," Patrick remarked breathily, trailing cool fingers over the bruises that marred him, admiring his own handiwork. Richie shivered at the ghostly sensation, but did not pull away. 

He had half a plan forming in his mind already, and saw no need to let it develop into a full plan; then he'd start questioning whether it was a good idea. 

Without prompting, he put his hands on Patrick's shoulders and tried to push him back onto the bed. Patrick didn't budge, only cocked his head, watching him. Snorting his annoyance, Richie opted instead to climb onto the bed, onto Patrick's lap. He glared at him, then moved to kiss him. 

Patrick ducked his head back. "What are you doing?" He didn't sound upset, rather just confused. Richie's cheeks heated. After all this, the idiot didn't know a kiss when he saw one? 

"I'm kissing you, dumbass," he snapped. "So let me." 

This time, Patrick didn't move away. Richie brought his sore mouth to Patrick's, wincing at the immediate ache of bruised lip on bruised lip. He kissed Patrick the way Patrick had kissed him back in the showers; drawing back, eyes closed, tracing his tongue around the outside of Patrick's lips. 

As the seconds ticked past and Patrick continued not to respond, Richie started to feel increasingly stupid and embarrassed. 

"Why aren't you kissing back?" he asked, scowling, face flushed. 

Patrick's expression had gone wary, clouded. "I don't... know. I don't trust this." 

Ugh. This was _useless._

With a snort of annoyance, Richie fell sideways onto the bed, bringing his knees up to his chest. Patrick let the silence fall between them, though he never took his eyes off Richie. 

"Did you ever bring Henry here? Like this, I mean." He patted the bed to convey his meaning. 

Oh, _stupid,_ stupid Trashmouth. Sure the question had been tickling the back of his mind for days, but... _Why not just ask him if he's got any rope to use for your noose._

Patrick looked at him very sharply; in the storm that was his eyes, thunder rumbled. Richie froze all over again. Then Patrick smiled, his lips all hunching to one side and then stretching; crooked. "You're smarter than you look. No, I haven't. Not yet." 

"So they tell me. I have all A's on my report card, you know. Have for as long as I can remember." 

Richie thought of that love-struck, bloodthirsty look on Patrick's face when Henry first released the buck-knife. _Well._ Maybe that was another piece of the Patrick-puzzle, then. 

Or maybe not. Maybe Patrick only liked Henry because he liked violence, and Henry was the physical embodiment of war. 

"It's not enough to leave Bill alone anymore." 

Patrick cocked his head, still smiling. "Oh?" he asked in an amused voice, in a, _oh, the puppy has discovered his own reflection_ tone. Richie tried not to let the mockery get to him. 

"No. It's not. I need you to protect Stan and Eddie, too." 

"From Henry? Not happening, short-stuff." 

_Damn._

"Then teach me how to fight. To fight _better._ Teach me how to win, so that I can protect them."

When Patrick reached for him, Richie tucked his chin into Patrick's hand, closing his eyes and allowing him to rub the bruise with his thumb, though it made his gums ache. From the slight hitching of Patrick's breath, this was doing more for him than Richie's best kissing attempts did. Of this, he was not surprised. 

Unprompted, he wriggled out of his shirt, knowing that while lying on his side, the bruises on both his back and his front were visible. Suddenly, Patrick was all hands. 

"I feel like teaching you to fight isn't in my best interests," Patrick remarked, after walking a path from tiny bruise to larger bruise to ugly wine-stain just under the surface of Richie's skin with just his fingertips. "Considering." 

Richie filled in the rest of the sentence for him. _Considering I want to kill you, and all._

Keeping direct eye-contact with Patrick, Richie took one of his huge hands by the wrist and brought it to his face. Patrick remained motionless as he manually spread his fingers apart, then brought his teeth down delicately on the webbing between Patrick's thumb and forefinger. He bit hard, hard enough to meet and then surpass resistance. Patrick softly _moaned_ at about the same moment that Richie tasted blood. 

"I'll make it worth your while," he promised. And oh, finally, _finally_ he was having that blessed out-of-body experience, the one where most of Richie packed up and left Richie Brain Headquarters, migrating south to hang out elsewhere so that his body, on autopilot, could do the more distasteful things without soulful input. 

He didn't even feel queasy when, with blood shining on his lips, he rolled onto his back. "I'll struggle, just like you want me to." 

He felt a ripple of unease when Patrick moved over him in one fluid motion that was all stretching of spine and flexing of arms, until he was looming above, blocking out the overhead light. His pupils had enlarged when Richie bit him and now he looked down at Richie as though seeing color for the first time in a gray life. 

A shameful piece of Richie's psyche appreciated that stare- that complete focus and attention. It fed him, fed his _need_ to be looked at, to be noticed. 

Patrick bent to kiss him, no doubt wanting to taste his own blood in Richie's mouth. True to his promise, Richie shot his arms up, catching Patrick's shoulders and keeping him at bay. "Don't!" he protested. He brought his knees up, too, for good measure when Patrick snarled and wrenched at his arms. 

He squirmed, trying to roll onto his stomach, half-succeeding before Patrick gripped him under his arms, slammed his back into the wall so hard that it rattled, and surged onto his lips, his tongue flooding hot and thick between Richie's teeth. Already his hands were on Richie's knees, prising his legs apart. 

Richie fought down the swell of panic that always rose. _I'm in control,_ he tried to remind himself. _This is all part of the plan..._ It hurt, though; his sore back meeting the wall again and again as Patrick moved on him; the ferocious way in which the older boy devoured his mouth, biting his lips and drawing them back, only to let them go and start over again. It was really quite overwhelming, and there was no actual way to make it stop- Patrick would just see any protests as a sign for _more, more..._

_Don't pull an Eddie,_ he told himself as Patrick slithered against him- Patrick was _everywhere,_ zero to a million miles in a matter of seconds; a coiled spring kept tight in a box until a switch was pulled. The trigger to a gun pointed at his own head. _Don't freak out now._

Patrick was fumbling with the buttons of Richie's pants. Richie pushed at his hands, trying to keep them away from the button and the zipper. He could no longer tell how much was acting and how much was real; evidently Patrick could see some of the reluctance in his eyes because his smile was stretching ear to ear as soon as he managed to wrench the fabric down to Richie's ankles, tangling with his shoes. 

If he didn't find some form of control, he might actually break down crying right here and now. He grabbed hold of Patrick's t-shirt, pulling at it. "Let me see!" he demanded. He pulled until the neck got tangled in Patrick's hair, until the teenager was forced to slow down as his arm movement was restricted. He yanked his shirt off and threw it over the side of the bed, and suddenly there was a lot more skin than there had been before. 

Richie touched the bruises he'd left on Patrick- smaller and fewer than the other had managed to leave on _him,_ but feeling Richie's thumbs press there made him hiss between his teeth, eyes closed, leaning into the sore sensation. 

_I'm scared,_ he thought, when Patrick hooked his thumbs in Richie's underwear and slid them down to his knees. He tried to banish the thought. Fear would do him no good here; would only hurt him more in the long run. He wasn't hard; was limp and small, but Patrick was very aroused. 

"Will you teach me how to fight?" Richie asked again in a small voice as Patrick stood to strip out of his own pants and underwear. He'd started shaking- he couldn't remember at what point, but he kept his jaw firmly clenched when he wasn't speaking to keep his teeth from chattering. 

Very delicately, he removed his glasses and set them on Patrick's side-table. No need to damage them any further. Patrick, now naked, was long and white and blurry as he stood, looking down at Richie's tangled form on his messy white sheets. 

He flinched when Patrick climbed onto the bed and dragged him closer by the ankle, the panic welling high enough for him to snatch his leg free and kick as hard as he was able, right into Patrick's stomach. 

Patrick grunted, squeezed the meat of Richie's calf so hard that tears sprang into Richie's eyes and he snapped his jaw shut on a yelp, and went still again. Patrick's free hand stroked up the inside of his leg, all the way to the soft skin of his thigh, and then dragged his nails down slowly, bitingly. 

"I'm in a good mood," Patrick announced, in a very low voice. "You could try begging."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for (referenced) sexual abuse and physical violence; brief mention of suicidal thoughts

Going back to school on Wednesday- he was too sore to even attempt it on Tuesday; it was a repeat of Sunday all over again. Sleep, pain meds, sleep again- was a quiet affair. Richie figured he'd slept more that week than he had in the whole year; he'd even managed to sleep in Patrick's room some, despite that feeling a little like napping in a den of lions.

There was no Stan waiting for him at the corner of Jackson; no Eddie impatiently tapping his foot and checking his watch at the gate. 

No Bill. 

Richie let the crowd of chattering students push him along the arteries of the school hallways, then struggled to extricate himself from them at his locker, wondering if he'd died in the night and become a ghost. 

This feeling was only doubled when he walked into his first period and a familiar pair of blue eyes snapped in his direction... then quickly skittered away. _Damn._ Bill really was upset with him. 

A cloying blot of fear sealed his lungs, cutting off his breath as he remembered phantom-Georgie's words in his sink. _Nobody will love you. Nobody will miss you_ when _you're gone._

Oh, God. He'd died. Patrick had killed him. He'd sank too deeply into himself as his brain struggled to disassociate, and then he hadn't woken up. He'd- 

Richie had almost reached his own desk- front and center; the teacher had spent only one morning with his goofing off in the back before changing his seating arrangements- when he was called back to her desk, reaffirming his existence in one relieving whoosh of breath. Wow; class hadn't even started yet and he was already in trouble. Go figure. 

"Yes, Mrs. Pryce?" He said, trying to appear his usual bouncy, rowdy self. _Be normal. Be normal. Be normal..._

"Principal Kelley wishes to speak with you, Mr. Tozier." 

He blinked at her. What fresh hell was this? 

"Since you have trouble going to where you're supposed to," she continued coolly, "I'm sending Betty with you to make sure you _get_ to the office." 

As if summoned, small, solemn-faced Betty Ripsom slipped from her chair and stood by his side. When Richie tried to smile at her, she looked shyly down at her sneakers. 

_Well. This ought to be fun._

She walked silently at his side in the hallways to the front office, no matter how much he tried to chat her up. His yammering only grew more frantic as that feeling returned- _you've died and the principal is going to tell you that dead kids aren't allowed in school,_ he thought, ridiculously and non-sensically. A hysterical bubble of laughter welled in his throat. 

"How about you come to homecoming with me?" he loudly asked Betty, who stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. 

"W-what?" 

"Homecoming. You know. Dancing? Bad Halloween decorations?" he mimed swaying with an invisible partner, a hand on her waist and another tangled with her nonexistent fingers. "Food? Age-appropriate music? Leave room for Jesus?" 

She blinked as he waited for her to laugh at him. Maybe punch his arm and tell him to stop being dumb. Instead, her face flooded with color. She was blushing big-time. 

"I," she looked down at her shoes again. He looked, too, wondering what made them so interesting, but saw nothing. "I-I-I... I guess so." 

Oh. 

Well. He hadn't expected _that._

He considered taking it back, but she looked so _happy,_ with a trembly little smile on her thin mouth. She probably didn't have a lot of friends- and shit; it was a very real possibility that he, Richie, no longer had friends either. He'd feel a right a-hole to let her down after that. 

"Great!" He tugged her elbow, as gently as he would have done with Eddie's. Something about this girl seemed delicate. "Come on, to the office with us before Principal Kelley has a cow." 

The little smile never left her face once as they reached the office, as Richie signed in at the front desk and took a seat, or as the office administrator gave Betty a hall-pass and sent her back to class. 

He didn't have long to wait, swinging his feet on the linoleum. His left hip was the sorest- Patrick had _done_ something to it, though he couldn't figure out what. Pulled a muscle? It made him limp like an extra in a zombie movie, for sure. The rest of the newest bruises and marks, he'd hid underneath his jacket. 

_"Not the face!"_ he'd squeaked, ducking in fear as they sparred out in the Hockstetter's small backyard. _"If you hit me in the face too much, people are gonna figure it out."_

_"So get better at dodging."_

It was hard to tell whether Patrick was actually teaching him to fight or just having a good time with his first willing punching-bag. 

Whatever the reason, by the time the administrator told him the principal was ready to see him, his hip had gone and got stiff again. He felt like a little old man limping to the half-glass, half-wood door with _J. M. Kelley_ stenciled in white just above the door handle. 

He let himself in, and was greeted by Principal Kelley's large back to the door. He swiveled in his chair upon hearing Richie arrive, his pale, doughy face softening in a smile. 

"Morning, Richard." 

"Good morning, sir." 

"Sit down, please." 

Richie sat. He'd been in here before, of course. One couldn't have a trashmouth like his and _not_ get sent in to the principal's office every now and then. 

Principal Kelley rested his elbows on his desk, steepled his fingers together, and rested his chin on them, just looking at Richie. Richie returned the stare. 

"Richard," the old man sighed, after a long silence. "Do you know what's been going on in Derry these past few months?" 

Richie found it easier to look at the things on Principal Kelley's desk- his paperwork, his half-chewed pens, a potted plant, a few photographs of family members- than continue meeting his eye. The man could only be referring to the missing kids. That was all adults ever talked about these days. He said so, and the principal nodded. 

"Yes. Kids are going missing. At least eight have been reported this year alone, and that's just within the boundaries of this school district." 

Richie swallowed, said nothing. He knew the statistics. Not all the kids who went missing _stayed_ missing, either. Some turned up dead. Some turned up dead and mutilated. He dreaded the inevitable day some farmer twenty miles away would find the shriveled and leaking remains of a six-year-old boy in a yellow raincoat. 

"Richard, what are we supposed to think when a straight-A student inexplicably misses two days of school, none of the calls home are answered, and then he comes back looking like that?" 

Richie's facial bruising was mostly all yellows now. He suspected his stiff, limping gait had not gone unnoticed. 

"I-" he opened his mouth, trying to find some excuse, but the principal cut him off. 

"The only reason we didn't call an officer to check on your house," he said. "Was because Mr. Uris came to us and told us he'd only just seen you, that you two had gotten into a fight." He continued to look at Richie, and Richie knew what he was thinking. _Nice boys like Stanley Uris don't get into fistfights._

"Look, Richie, I get it. Puberty. Hormones. You feel trapped, confused. You feel angry at the world. I've been a principal for six years and a teacher twenty-two before that. I thought I'd seen it all before this year. But I'm going to need you to behave better than your age right now, alright? No more getting into fights. And no more skipping school without a parent calling in. Do you understand?" 

Numbly, Richie nodded, and the old man smiled, not unkindly. "Then we're done here. Unless there's something else you need to tell me?" 

_Yes, actually, sir. I have no idea where my parents are. None of my friends will look at me. Dead kids are talking to me in the plumbing. Two days ago Patrick Hockstetter shoved his dick in my mouth while his parents were on the other side of the wall peacefully eating their ham and potatoes. He pinched my nose and held me down on it so long I thought I'd wake up dead. It still hurts to talk. Did you know that getting jizz in your eyes stings like a bitch, sir?_

For a second, he thought he had said those forbidden words, by the stillness that came over the principal, the way his silvery eyebrows knitted together. Inside, he panicked. _Was this it?_

"You look troubled. Remember what they tell you: a principal is your pal." 

The photograph closest to Richie was of Principal Kelley with his arms around his little niece at some sort of birthday party. They were both smiling; she had blue frosting on her face, and he was wearing a Daisy Duck party hat. He really seemed like a nice guy... 

"I'm fine sir." he said quietly. "It won't happen again." 

The principal nodded as if that settled everything. "Alright. Then back to class with you, Richard." 

"Yes, sir." 

* * *

It took only one more ice-cold look from Bill Denbrough in the cafeteria to confirm that he would not be welcome at his usual lunch table. Richie swallowed, continued his sweeping glance across the room as though he'd not seen Bill at all, and waved at nobody. He was very grateful when some kid who's name he couldn't even remember gave a half-hearted wave back. 

There was another set of eyes on Richie from the back, and those he did briefly meet. Patrick raised a bottle of pink Snapple his way in a toasting gesture and, like feral dogs following a scent, Bowers, Criss, and Huggins also turned his way. 

Suddenly, Richie wasn't feeling so hungry anymore. 

He dropped Patrick's laughing gaze and took a few shuffling steps outside, then hustled through the door, the noisy buzz of a full cafeteria falling quiet behind him. 

He knew Beverly Marsh spent most of her lunch-periods hiding in the girls' bathroom by the art lab with her cigarettes, avoiding the snots who harassed her. He briefly entertained the idea of going in after her, joining her in a stall and stealing a cigarette. No- that was probably crossing a line of their non-friendship, and anyway, it'd just make her bullies all the more convinced she was doing every member of the school who happened to have a Y-chromosome. 

_You just don't want to go in because it's a bathroom,_ he thought, annoyed with himself. There was truth to this, of course. Hearing actual voices in his bathroom sink hadn't improved what was slowly becoming a phobia. _Nothing good happens in a bathroom._

Whatever the reason, Richie instead went outside. Clusters of kids sat in the shade of available crabapple trees, eating or goofing off or kissing. He considered joining a few familiar faces- despite, or perhaps because of his mouth, Richie had more acquaintances than Bill, Stan, or Eddie- but his feet instead took him to the very back of the school, where he at last sat where no grass grew. 

"I shay," he told himself in a Humphrey Bogart voice. "It appearsh ash though we are all on our loneshome, Richie-me-boy." 

Maybe the goddamn Neibolt-clown-hallucination would come and eat him. So long as he made it quick, Richie wondered if he'd even mind. Life in general had slid so quickly to sucksville- not a damn chuckalicious moment had been had in so long. He was getting tired of being so, well, _sad and tired_ all the time. 

"Ish it poshible to hate your _shelf?"_ he wondered. He supposed so. He'd heard about people hurting or even killing themselves before, on the news and such. The idea had seemed so alien to him at the time; hard to wrap his head around. _Why would anyone ever do such a thing?_

He wondered if those people had felt lonely, too. 

He listlessly picked at the scraggly weeds that cropped up here and there outside the school, used one to poke at a small, white feather. 

Approaching footsteps made him look up, drawing his knees to his body defensively. _Clown!_ then, _Patrick!_ The fears were always in that order. 

It was neither. Stanley Uris rounded the corner, locked eyes with him, then approached, a skinny, fierce warrior in khaki shorts and a salmon-colored polo shirt. 

"Come on," Stanley said in his no-nonsense voice, holding a hand out to Richie. "Up." 

Richie shook his head. "No way, Stan-the-man. I'm not going back with you today." 

Stan kept his hand out for a long moment. When he saw that he wouldn't budge, he instead sank primly to the ground across from Richie. He moved in a single fluid motion; ankles crossed, then knees bent as he sat. _He'd make a good dancer,_ Richie thought. 

Stan rested his hands on his knees. Richie felt like he was being studied like one of Stan's birds, but he held still, eyes closed, and let him look his fill. Just like with Mr. Uris, Richie wondered what Stanley saw when looking at him. 

Stan leaned forward- the shadows behind Richie's eyelids shifted- and then he took both of Richie's hands, holding them up for closer examination. 

Bruised and split knuckles, he already knew. One of Patrick's teeth had cut deep over his left third knuckle and it stung whenever he washed it, but he was pretty proud of that battle-scar. He'd landed a good punch that time. 

Then Stan moved his hand underneath Richie's right one, pushing up and then between his fingers until they were holding hands, like they'd held hands when Richie protected him from the bullies. 

"Sorry, Stanley," Richie croaked, his sore voice more pronounced than usual. "My heart already belongs to Eddie's mom. I can't be seen like this with you." 

"Shut up." The worst part of it was, Stanley didn't even sound annoyed. He was using his father's _'I'm not angry, just disappointed,'_ voice. That was worse. "They had knives." 

"What?" Richie opened his eyes. Stan's stare was so acute it burned. He could probably see right through Richie and out the other side. 

"When Bowers and Hockstetter attacked us at the park, they pulled knives on us. You could have run, but you didn't. Can you tell me why?" 

Well, that was easy. "Ah do declare, it's because ah _looooove_ you, Stanleh!!!" Richie's Southern Belle voice could use some work, but he puckered his lips and made a loud kissing noise just the same. In hindsight, maybe Beverly's observation of the use of his voices was more apt than she even knew. "Will you marry and make an honest husband out of a brazen hussy like me?" 

Stan tried to snatch his hand back; Richie wouldn't let him. Stan settled for glaring at him, instead. "Just assume, for a second, that the rest of us feel for you what you felt when you protected me," he said. "You aren't the only one who gives a shit, okay? The four of us have a 'something'. Make jokes about it all you like, but you know it's true. We don't like it when you come to school looking like _this."_ Here, he raised Richie's arm by the wrist and tugged the sleeve of his shirt down until the five fresh fingerprint-shaped marks wrapping around Richie's arm became visible. "We don't like when you freak out on us when we try to help." 

Richie tried to pull his arm back, and after a second, Stanley let him. He quickly fixed his sleeve and shoved both hands in his lap, where Stan couldn't get him. Eye-contact was out of the question right now, so he watched a slow procession of ants nearby carry a fragment of a potato chip with them. He wished he could fit into their anthill and avoid this inevitable conversation entirely. 

"Bill's afraid- we're all afraid- that we're losing you. Eddie's been close to tears all day. How would you feel if _he_ came to school looking the way you look right now, huh?" 

Unbidden, the very image rose in Richie's mind. Eddie, bruised, voice sore, jumping when people came too close to him. The thought made his fists clench in anger. If anyone ever fucking laid a hand on Eddie... 

"There." Suddenly, Stan's voice was achingly gentle. "Now do you get it? _That's_ what you're doing to us." 

He wanted to talk. It was stronger than the urge he'd felt with his mother; stronger than the kind, listening ear principal Kelley had offered. This was Stanley, whom Richie had known for more than half his life. Smart, trustworthy Stan who had a way of taking the world's most complicated and messy bits and sorting them into easily understood boxes. Could he possibly make any of this mess less confusing for Richie? 

"What if..." Richie licked is lower lip. He was ridiculously afraid to say this next bit, although it was easily the least shocking thing he had to say. What if Stanley only stared at him in disgust? "What if I told you that I... kissed a guy?" 

Stan blinked at him, no doubt searching his face to see if this was some kind of joke. When he saw only sincerity in Richie's eyes, he cocked his head. "I'd say congratulations? You moved on from your breakup with that girl really fast, though." 

"Stanley, there was no girl." 

"... Oh." 

"You're not gonna read me Torah passages about how I'm a filthy, sinning abomination?" 

"Richie, I would smack you if you didn't look like you'd been through ten rounds with a heavyweight champion already. You could kiss every dude on campus and I'd question your taste and assume you contracted mono, but it wouldn't stop me from being your friend. Keep talking; I think this is the first truth I've gotten out of you in ages." 

Well, now that the first step was taken... "I did more than kiss him." _His nose buried in Patrick's pubes. Patrick slicking two fingers in his mouth and sliding them up into- oh god, don't go there. Don't-_ "A lot more." 

"You look like you're about to puke." Stan's hazel eyes pierced into his soul once more; blazing like the sun, and then softening as a cloud rolled in front of them. "Richie, did you _want_ to do stuff with him?" 

God, Stan was perceptive. That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? "He told me that I did." 

"Richie..." 

Richie lowered his chin to the tops of his knees, closing his suddenly too-full eyes. A tear slipped out anyway, rolling quicksilver-fast down his nose. "It doesn't matter if I want it or not. I don't get a choice. I don't get to argue with him. I don't get to stop. Not for a whole year, and by the end of it..." 

He was talking too much. His trashmouth was shooting off without him, spilling his insides left and right until he was just an empty sack to dry and rot in the sun. He squeezed his fists until the scabbed-over abrasions broke open again; until his nails pierced his palms. "I brought it on myself. It's my fault. I like it sometimes, even. And it's not so bad- I can like, make requests and stuff, and sometimes it feels good, and he's teaching me to fight. So it's okay. It's worth it. I-" 

His words were cut off by Stan, cool, composed Stanley, who sorted his books by author's last name and his records by the year released, dove wildly for him and crushed Richie to his chest. His arms were like vices, a palm to the back of his head. Stanley rocked him gently with his mouth and nose buried in the curly hair at the top of Richie's head, murmuring quietly as Richie fought not to break down and cry, _really_ cry, right then and there behind the school. 

"I don't know why I'm crying," he said, voice going increasingly high-pitched as he tried to regain control. "It was my choice. And I don't regret it." 

"He hits you." 

"That's only to be expected. I mean, have you _met_ me?" 

"Shut up, Richie, just _shut. Up._ Remember what I told you? Imagine this stuff happening to Eddie- imagine Eddie saying the stuff you're saying right now. _That's_ how you're making me feel." 

Ooh. That bad, huh? 

He fought the urge to cry until it tightened into a single, hard-packed lump in his throat, until the storm passed and he could simply wind his arms around Stanley and hold him back. Saying that stuff had felt like shit- _oh, look, you've gone and upset Stan-the-man. You can't do anything right, can you Trashmouth?_ \- and he wasn't about to make it worse by saying anything more. 

"Can we just be normal?" he asked in a small voice. "I'll tell Bill I'm sorry for being such an asshole. I swear I won't do it again." _No more mistakes. No more fuck-ups._ "I'll be good ole Richie, I _promise._ Just give me another chance; I'll show you." 

Stan relaxed his death-grip on Richie, so Richie also slid his arms loose, gratefully using his hands to wipe his face free of all traces of tears. After he cleaned his glasses on the hem of his shirt and placed them back on his nose, he saw that Stan was looking at him again. No, not looking- _burning._

"You still don't get it, do you, Richie?" Stan asked, words clipped in hot but carefully maintained anger. "This has to stop. I- we- don't _want_ you 'acting' normal for our sakes. Act as fucking weird as you want, do you understand? I'm not gonna let this keep happening to you, if I have to kill that bastard myself." 

Oh, bad plan, bad plan. This was exactly why Richie hadn't wanted to talk in the first place. He immediately tried to backpedal, affixing a doofy, dismissive smile on his face. "Stan, I don't want you anywhere near him. He's dangerous. He's crazy. He'll-" _He might do to you exactly what he's doing to me. Eddie isn't the only one I care about, you know._

"I can't let this go on, Richie. Friends protect each other, always. Like... like you protected me from bullies with knives this weekend." 

How to put this in a way Stan would understand?! Short of actually saying Patrick's name... or was that what it would fucking take to drive home the impossibility of any retaliation? Gathering his nerves, Richie clamped his hands on Stan's shoulders and looked him in the eye. 

"They're the same _person,_ Stanley. And whether he's fucking me or drinking beer in a park, he _always_ carries knives."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out this cool art Acrophilia drew of the previous chapter [ [here]! ](http://aminoapps.com/page/itofficialamino/7833600/whether-hes-drinking-beer-in-a-park-or-fucking-me-he-always-carries-knives) It's freaking amazeballs; I love it so much :'))))
> 
> Trigger warning for some horror/ disturbing imagery at the end of this chapter as well as some gaslighting and victim-blaming.

Richie had to stay after school got out almost an hour for advanced English, completing a handwritten essay-quiz he'd missed the day before. By the time he dropped his warm pencil, hand sore, and made his way to the door, he saw that he was no longer alone. Three slumped figures awaited him in the hallway.

"Guys?" he cocked his head. At last, Bill was looking at him... but he didn't know if he should look back. _Did Stan_ say _something?_

"W-w-we wanted to walk you home, R-Richie." Bill's voice was soft, and hearing it, Richie's face flooded red. _Stan_ had said something. The bastard. He promised he wouldn't! 

He turned an angry look on Stan, heart thundering in his chest. Somehow, the thought of Bill- specifically Bill- knowing what had happened to him was just too much. They'd agreed he had too much going on right now... and Richie's pride rejected it, anyway. It was too embarrassing to have Bill see him _like that._ Weak. Cowardly. _A victim._

"Stop that," Stan said sternly. "Whatever you think I did, I didn't do it. I just told them that you could really use a friend right now." 

And Bill had forgiven him just like that, no questions asked? 

Eddie was looking anxiously back and forth between his three friends. "Will someone please tell me what's going on?!" he sounded peeved. "My mom's upset that I'll be late coming home. I called her." 

"We're going to be walking Richie home from now on," Stan said crisply. He had his old-man face on; a premature wrinkle between his eyebrows, a sternness to his jaw. "And tonight he's staying at Bill's house." 

Richie's jaw dropped. "Who _gave you the right-"_ he was absolutely incredulous. He couldn't even make a joke out of this. It'd been a long time since he was well and truly angry; the emotion didn't sit well with his goofball nature. 

_"You_ did, Richie," Stan snapped. "When you came to me for help. I'm helping you in the best way I know how." 

"I _did not_ come to you for help! You forced me to tell you-" 

"Tell. Him. What?!" Eddie's eyes were burning blue fire as he glared up at each of his friends in turn. 

Richie ignored him, the full force of his anger turned instead on Stan. "You don't get to... to... _babysit_ me!" 

"What, do you have an _appointment_ later I'm interrupting? Were you _summoned_ to go be his-" 

"S-s-stop." Bill interrupted, before Stan could say something unforgivably terrible. "Let's j-just go home." 

Richie was still staring, pale-faced, at Stan. He was pretty sure the next word out of Stan's mouth was going to start with a 'W'. And while he'd never objected to the word before, the accuracy made him feel sick to his stomach. 

Stan seemed to have realized he'd crossed an invisible line, because he swallowed hard, Adams apple bobbing, and looked instead at the slate-gray sky visible outside the window. 

Eddie was still gazing at Richie's face. _You're scaring me._

Stan really shouldn't have dragged Eddie into this, but Mrs. Kaspbrak had threatened them on numerous occasions to never, ever let Eddie walk home alone. He tentatively linked an arm around Eddie's neck. 

"It's okay, Eds," he said softly, tucking some brown hair out of the smaller boy's face and behind his ear. "Let's just go, yeah? I'll buy you an ice cream at Dollies." 

Eddie's eyes were still burning holes into him, but he didn't pull away, didn't object to the hated nickname. "I don't _want_ ice cream, I want-" 

"Eddie." Bill didn't often use that Voice- Richie wasn't even sure if he was aware of its power when he did use it- but when he did, there was no room for argument. When he talked like that, he was Big Bill, and they would have followed him into hell. "Let's go." 

They went. 

Later, as they dropped half their party off at Eddie's home (it was approaching dark; Stan would remain there until his dad could come pick him up. Richie almost admired his commitment to the hardass bit; willingly giving up hours of his day under Mrs. Kaspbrak's watchful eye took some balls) Richie at last found himself exactly where he'd dreaded to be: alone with Big Bill. 

He kept his mouth full of the rocket pop he'd bought at Dollies for as long as possible. It was too cold for popsicles, really, and he shivered, but Bill didn't call him out on it, just slowly pedaled his giant silver bicycle at even pace with Richie's too-small one. When they were younger, they used to pretend it was a horse. 

"Home's kind of messy right now," Bill said apologetically. Richie wasn't sure if he meant literally or metaphorically, but as they left their bikes in the garage and went inside, Richie saw that he meant both. Baskets of laundry tumbled over the once-pristine couch; dirty dishes filled the sink; wine bottles covered and surrounded the coffee table. A layer of dust coated everything. 

Bill, flushing red, quickly grabbed a basket overflowing with silky things- bras and slips and underwear- and hustled it off to his parents' room. Richie toyed with ways to joke about it; implying that Bill didn't have to hide his preferred form of undergarments from his closest of friends, then let it go. He was too tired to joke. 

Instead, he pushed a pile of Mr. Denbrough's trousers and Bill's sheets to the far end of the couch and curled up in the space they made, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of fabric softener. He could faintly hear Bill's voice in his mother's room. 

"Y-you awake?" 

"I am now." 

"Did y-you eat today?" 

"... Pass me the cigarettes, will you, baby?" 

Mrs. Denbrough, Richie had learned once when she'd caught him smoking and lectured him fiercely about it, had given up smoking in college. Apparently, the old habit had come creeping back. 

"Y-you sh-shouldn't smoke in bed. It's d-d-dangerous." 

"Bill, please." 

A sigh. Creaking footsteps. The strike of a match. "Be c-careful, okay? Richie's here. We're gonna m-make dinner." 

"That's nice, baby." 

Bill returned to Richie a moment later. Both boys regarded each other. The way Bill's eyes passed over Richie's curled, humorless form informed Richie that he was seeing the exact same thing he saw when he looked at his mother: a chewed-up shell of a person. 

Well, that wouldn't do. He was sad, yes. He was tired, certainly. But there was still life in him, life enough to be Bill Denbrough's friend anyway. He sat up and offered a smile. "Did you say something about making dinner?" 

Generally, Richie thought, young teenage boys mashing ground beef with oats and ketchup and egg and preheating the oven to 375 would be considered funny, even strange. He couldn't imagine any of their classmates doing this. But with Bill, it felt normal. 

Bill took one look at his scraped and scabbed hands and forbade him from plunging them in the raw meat/egg mixture, instead handing him a spoon. (Richie immediately swatted him on the ass with said spoon the second he turned his back. _Give a man a weapon...)_ Bill yelped in grumpy protest, but he couldn't quite hide the smile. 

He switched on the tiny kitchen radio and then it was Richie's turn to smile. Guns n Roses were playing; that was some good luck. He bounced around and bobbed his head as he thoroughly mixed the meatloaf- then continued jamming his spoon in and out of it after it was mixed to produce an obnoxious, wet sound, grinning evilly when it made Bill cringe. 

"Stop that." Bill snatched the bowl from his hands, but Richie kept hold of the dirtied spoon and tried to poke Bill in the cheek with it as he spread the meat-mixture out in a bread-pan. 

"Your stuttering sounds better today," Richie observed, and Bill's smile brightened. He was freaking beautiful when he smiled, like a knight from an old fairy tale. It was almost disgusting. 

"Yeah, I went to that Bangor speech therapist again." He talked with deliberate slowness, pausing to feel each word out on his tongue before uttering it. He was showing off, and Richie loved it. "Learned some new tr-tricks." 

Richie pretended he hadn't heard that last stutter. "Great! But you're not allowed to leave us for cooler people, okay? You're still ours, no refunds." He was half-joking, but it was a legitimate concern he knew he shared with Stan and Eddie. Bill was handsome; smart; charismatic. He drew people in. If he didn't have that stutter... would he even still be a Loser anymore? 

Bill grinned. It was a relief to see him smile after the previous frosty looks he'd received from him that day. He never, ever wanted Bill to look at him so coldly again. It had _hurt._

"S-so there's no g-g-getting rid of you, then?" 

"You wish, Denbrough." Richie was still bouncing along to the radio, he realized. _"I might be too much, but honey you're a bit obscene! I've seen everything imaginable..."_

"R-R-Richie, stop." Bill laughed. "Y-you c-can't sing for crap." 

"That's not what your mom said last night." 

"T-that doesn't even make sense." 

They retreated to Bill's room after setting the oven's timer for the food to bake. It was messy, but not unusually so, and Richie sat immediately at Bill's desk to stick his nose through the bars of Tonto's hamster cage. 

"He's g-g-gonna bite you," Bill warned, but as always the little rodent paid Richie no mind. 

Bill worked on his homework while Richie poked around. He was starting to feel sore again- time to take more meds- but he was having fun, sliding a record onto Bill's record player and disappearing underneath his bed to pull out his sketchbook and look what Bill's artists' hands had most recently created. 

There were fewer pictures of Beverly than usual, and a lot more of a certain little boy. Those, Richie quickly flipped past. They felt too sad, too private, like seeing Bill crying on the day of the sleepover. 

"Hey, that's me!" he smiled and held up a recent page. "Looking handsome as ever." (Bill snorted; the picture depicted a mostly-naked Richie spooning a grouchy-looking Eddie.) Richie lowered the picture to look it over again, then frowned. 

On the back of drawing-Richie's neck, there was a shadow. It could have been an errant stroke of pencil, a smudge of finger in graphite, but Richie didn't think so. It was the bruise, the first bruise, that Patrick had left behind. It'd been immortalized forever in Bill's artbook, where he catalogued and categorized the world around him each night so he could put his brain to sleep. Seeing it like this made it too real. 

He'd been patiently waiting for Richie to tell him all along. Maybe that had been why Stan sent Richie home with Bill in the first place. _I won't tell him your secret, but you should._

Oh, Bill. 

Richie put the book down, and waited until he had Bill's attention before speaking. "I'm sorry I said that shit to you on the phone. I didn't mean it. I just didn't want to tell you the truth." He wanted to look away. Bill's eyes were too kind. He didn't deserve it, and it hurt. 

"W-what _is_ the tr-truth, Richie?" Bill asked, and set his homework-pencil down. 

Richie swallowed, then stood. "Don't freak out," he cautioned, and took off his shirt. 

* * *

Dinner was quiet, and not just because Bill's parents had been replaced by shuffling zombies that stared at the slightly-overcooked food on their forks as though not sure what to do with it. 

Richie felt hungrier than he had in days, and at the same time guilty for it. He was the only one _really_ eating. Everyone else just picked at it. 

_You've upset all your friends,_ he thought sourly to himself, barely breathing as he shoveled food into his face. _You're always getting into trouble and then they have to rescue you. They'd all be better off without you. Sooner or later, they'll figure that out and dump you._

There was no radio music when they returned to the kitchen. Bill washed the dishes; the whole sink-full of them. Richie meekly dried them and put them away. He tried to talk once. "Bill-" 

Bill gave him a solemn, stern look, and Richie's voice failed him. _Crap, crap, crap._

It had been easier to tell Bill than it had Stan, and at the same time, harder. It was much more deliberate, while with Stan the words had sort of just tumbled out. Maybe the more times he said it, the easier it would get. At least he didn't cry this time. That would have been too embarrassing. 

Bill had stayed mostly quiet, only asking a few stuttering questions, and then had reached for Richie as though intending to touch the deep red nail-grooves that ran down the length of his back like flayed red rivers, fanned apart at his shoulders, coming closer and nearly meeting at his tailbone- and then quickly drawing his hand back before making contact. 

Ten fingerprints around his waist. Two semicircle of indentations- toothmarks- one on his chest just above his right nipple; the other at the slight curve at the end of his ribs. On the list went. He looked like he'd been half-eaten by some kind of rabid bobcat. 

"J-J-Jesus, Rich," was all Bill would say. "Jesus. W-why... what d-d-does he have on you to m-make you d-do _that?"_

That, Richie couldn't say. Not yet. He didn't think Bill would respond well at all knowing the reasons behind it all. Thankfully, the chiming of the oven-timer had saved him, and he'd re-dressed and left the room to set the table. 

They went back to his room again. Bill liked to change into pajamas and be comfortable after dinner, and he studiously grabbed two t-shirts and pajama bottoms from the stack of couch-laundry on their way. Richie selected the larger of the two pairs- too big, but they smelled like Bill and they made him feel safe. 

Bill watched him as he changed, as though hoping the marks on Richie's body might have disappeared during dinner. They hadn't, and he swore under his breath when he saw additional thumbprints on his hips; more dragging nail marks that began mid-thigh and disappeared into the leg of Richie's underwear. 

At least it broke the silence. 

"You don't gotta keep staring at me like I'm about to break," Richie remarked a little snidely, and that seemed to snap Bill out of it. 

"W-w-well what I'm I _s-s-supposed_ to do, R-Richie?!" Bill threw his hands up. "M-my b-b-best fr-friend is b-b-being r-r-r-r-r..." 

"O _kay!"_ Now Richie was the one being too loud. "You don't gotta get all stuck on words, Scooby Doo! I know what's happening." He didn't want to hear Bill say the 'R' word any more than he wanted to hear Stan say the 'W' word. He quickly softened his tone. "You don't gotta _do_ anything. I'm just. I'm done lying to you. Don't... I told you not to freak out." 

Bill made a strangled, frustrated little noise and fell back onto his bed, fist colliding with a pillow. Richie really had rendered him too flustered to speak. 

"I'm sorry," Richie said quietly. When Bill didn't respond, he sat cross-legged on the floor and dragged his backpack to himself. He had plenty of homework to catch up on. After twenty minutes or so of working, he felt Bill's hand touch his head, fingers carding softly through his hair. 

"I'm not a dog," he said, but gently. When Bill tried to retract his hand, Richie pulled it right back. "I didn't say to stop." 

They stayed up until the elephant-shaped alarm clock read half past eleven, when Richie's eyes were growing itchy and tired. Bill looked up from his comic book when he yawned. 

"B-bedtime?" 

"Yeah; hand me a pillow?" 

Bill reached for his second pillow, then paused. "Y-you could..." he patted the mattress invitingly. Richie cocked his head. 

"Bill _Denbrough!_ Are you trying to seduce me?" he batted his eyelashes until Bill made a mock-disgusted face. (Richie wasn't fooled. There was a chuckle in those blue, blue eyes.) 

"C-changed my mind," he grumbled sourly, and attempted to roll over, but Richie was already squishing onto the bed behind him and hugging him tight around the waist. 

"No take-backs. If I am to be just another notch in the bedpost, then so be it!" 

"S-shut up and g-g-go to sleep." 

"Truly, the words of a romantic poet." 

There; he'd done it. Bill was chuckling, a little. So quiet it wasn't audible, but his belly bounced under Richie's arm. The next time a teacher assigned Richie an essay about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life, he thought he might consider 'Making Bill Denbrough Laugh for Fun and Profit' as an acceptable response. 

Just to be annoying, he nuzzled his face into Bill's spine until Bill reached behind himself and caught Richie by the chin, holding him with one hand as he dragged the blanket over them both with the other. 

"R-R-Richie, I'm s-sorry I got mad. We-we'll figure s-something out. I j-just. I... uh... _y-you..."_ He was stuck again. He likely felt Richie's smile against his shoulder. 

"It's okay, Bill. I 'uh' you, too." Richie reached to turn the lamp off and rest his glasses on the side-table. Then, though the joke had already been made, he slid back against Bill's back, tentatively resting an arm around his waist. _(I am not afraid of Bill Denbrough,_ he reminded the tiny, foreign twinge of anxiety.) 

Bill didn't protest. He simply breathed quietly in the dark, and after many long minutes had passed, his awake-relaxed breathing faded into asleep-relaxed breathing. Richie listened to it, his own breathing subconsciously synching to the sound. 

_Safe with Bill._ Always _safe with Bill._

Nice a thought as this was, it simply wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Bill was Richie's age. Bill was strong, sure, but grownups were stronger. Whoever was killing those kids was stronger still. 

"Strong enough to pull a kid's arm right off his body, puppy. Crunch!" 

Richie jolted at the familiar dry voice in this most unexpected of places. "Patrick?!" 

Patrick, roughly nine feet tall, loomed over the bed, smiling toothily. Had his teeth always been so very sharp? They reminded Richie of vampire fangs, only _every_ tooth was pointed so, not just his canines. 

"I should be afraid of you," Richie told him, glaring, and turned around to shake Bill's shoulder, to tell him there was a crazy man in his room, to grab the big, heavy snowglobe off the nearby shelf and use it to- 

"You should be," Patrick agreed easily, as Richie realized that Bill was no longer there at all. They weren't even on Bill's bed anymore, or even in his room, but in Derry park, brightly lit and sun-dappled under the dogwood trees. Richie was sitting half in Patrick's lap with Patrick's knees on either side of him and his arms crossed over Richie's chest like a pair of lovers enjoying a picnic under puffy pink and orange sunset-clouds. 

"This is a dream," Richie realized in some relief. The most damn realistic dream he'd ever had- he could count the spots on a nearby moth sunning its fuzzy body in the soft, thick grass, could smell the brackish water from the nearby Barrens. 

"Sure, kid." Patrick laid back in the thick grass, pulling Richie down on top of him. With his ear against Patrick's chest, Richie could hear the pumping of his heart. "You're a big liar, you know. Letting your friends think you've been raped, and all. Let me tell you a secret, Richie: It's not rape if you want it. But we can keep that between us. You can keep pretending you still deserve them, if that's what you need to do to live with yourself." He waggled a reproachful finger in Richie's face, as though scolding an errant puppy. 

Richie stared at Patrick, his voice tangled up in his throat the way Bill's got sometimes. Patrick was looking back at him kindly, understandingly, as he stroked Richie's hair with fingers the length of pencils. "It's okay," he crooned soothingly. "Stan's right though; you are a whore." 

His hand dropped to Richie's ass, fitting his fingers over the bruises he'd left the day before. He rolled his hips under Richie's body, slipping a knee between his. "I'm the only one who understands you, Richie. I'm the only one who knows what you are inside. I'm the only one who knows what you need; who can ever _really_ love you." 

Richie couldn't argue. _(You don't get to argue with me.)_ His waking self may have fought the idea, but not here; not now. 

"Say you want me." Patrick's hand slid into Richie's pajama bottoms, wrapping around him and giving a soft stroke. Richie was humiliated to discover that he'd grown hard as a rock in Patrick's hand. "Say it, and I'll forgive you for lying about me." 

Richie could feel the long fangs brushing his ear as he spoke, felt wetness trail down his jaw as the skin was broken. He opened his mouth to scream, but the words that fell out instead were a choked, _"I want you."_

"That's a good boy," Patrick whispered into his ear. "Now kiss me." 

"If I kiss you, your fucking teeth will cut me open," Richie was relieved to discover his voice had really come back. Being without it had rattled him more than he could explain. 

"Well you should be used to that by now. Do it anyway." 

Richie propped his weight up on Patrick's chest, which had grown to the size of a door. Long-lashed seafoam eyes stared up at him, waiting. Breath hitching in his chest, he lowered, reluctantly, and kissed him. As predicted, the razorlike teeth sliced into Richie's lips, his cheeks and chin, razing his face wide open like thin strips of beef. Cupfulls of blood rained down and soaked into the grass, pressing it flat. An incisor pierced his tongue, pinned it into and then through his mandible where he hung, a fish dangling off a line. 

Richie struggled in Patrick's grasp, hands yanking at that fang, trying to pull it out of his face, his _face..._ At last, Patrick released him, and he rolled onto his back, trying to stem the bleeding. Air whistled through the new hole in his mandible, and the lenses of his glasses were smeared in blood, and so it was through a clear-red sheen that he saw _them._

There were shapes high up in the tree- _very_ high; taller than he'd ever seen a dogwood grow. Six lumpy forms all bound in dusty gray silk. One of them wriggled, twisting in the sun... 

And Richie's bleeding mouth dropped open in a scream. 

It was Bill, _his_ Bill dangling from the neck from the tree, milky eyes half-lidded and blue tongue lolling down his ash-colored chin. 

The other shapes, Richie could see now, were other kids. His heart sank further and further down, hard as a stone in the river, as he made out their faces. Those were Stan's curls; Eddie's chalk-white lips; a braided rope the color of flames hanging limply down Beverly's back. There was that one farmer's boy, the homeschool-kid... what was his name? Mike something? 

There was a kid in the back that Richie didn't know - _yet; didn't know yet_ \- pudgy and round and just as dead as the rest of them. 

"Oh, you've found your friends," Patrick crooned from where he lay still underneath Richie, drenched in the blood that still ran freely from his mouth. He wrapped an arm around Richie's' chest- thin and brittle and covered in coarse black hairs. "Look, there's even a spot for you. How nice" 

He pointed with a curved, shiny claw, and Richie followed the direction; underneath Bill and beside Beverly, there was indeed an empty branch that dripped with silk, ready for his own hanging. 

Patrick wrapped that arm around Richie, too, and then another, and then a third, a fourth, a fifth, until Richie was bound immobile by eight furred limbs with only his eyes free to see when Bill's corpse yawned his mouth wide open, a balloon floating free of his mouth and rising into the air. 

As though on his command, the other bodies released balloons of their own, floating away, away, _away..._

Tears pricked Richie's eyes when he saw it; dream-logic, the kind that could not be questioned, made him certain that it was the balloons that were his friends; everything that mattered of them, anyway. Without them, there was nothing left. They'd been gutted of soul, and he couldn't ever get those back. 

"We all float down here," said the thing that might have once been Patrick, happy as could be holding Richie tight. "And you will, too." 

Richie sat up with a jolting gasp, both hands flying to his mouth, his jaw. He searched in the quiet darkness for slices, tears, expecting to feel hot blood soaking down the neck of his t-shirt. 

"Richie?" Bill mumbled drowsily; his arm that had been flung casually over Richie's chest as they shifted and settled in their sleep had been knocked away, rousing him. There was no Patrick. There was no monster. Richie felt a drop of sweat bead at the nape of his neck and run down his spine while his racing heart calmed. _Just a dream. Just a..._

Bill sat up; a blurry gray outline faintly illuminated by the Denbrough porch lights shining from the window. It was just a trick of the light, but the outline of a lock of his hair curving the wrong way around his jaw looked, to Richie's weak eyes, like the fang of some beast. "Richie, what's wr-wrong?" 

"Bad dream," he replied, trying to sound reassuring, even a little bashful. "Time is it?" he asked, rubbing his blearing, strained eyes with his hands. That'd been a freaky dream... More stress? Likely. Already it was slipping through his fingertips like sand, and he didn't try to hold onto it. Something about Patrick? Balloons? No thank you; he'd prefer not to remember. 

Bill glanced at the alarm clock next to him. "T-t-two. G'tsleep, R-Rich." His words were all sleep-slurred; he was half under the blanket of dreams already, and Richie let him go, felt him slip away again. 

Richie couldn't shake that ominous, foreboding feeling, though; not for a long while. He simply lay in the darkness, watching the rise and fall of Bill's chest and keeping a gap between their bodies until the darkness outside began fading to gray. The next time he opened his eyes, it was at six to the trumpeting alarm clock, and Bill's side of the bed was cool to the touch. 

_Billy's in the web,_ the nonsensical thought was so knowing and sure, so _other_ than Richie's normal thinking-voice, that he sat up with a sharp gasp. _He's in the-_

"Whoa," Bill's warm voice came from the desk, and Richie snatched for his glasses until the very solid and real form of his best friend could be seen, seated at the desk bathed in golden morning-light from the window, with his sketchbook and his hamster and a tall glass of water. "Y-you alright over there?" 

Richie panted- actually panted, like he'd been running a marathon- and gawked, open-mouthed. Bill was here with his voice all early-morning husky. Bill was real. Bill was safe. 

When Bill turned in his seat to look at him, Richie gave a half-smile. "Yeah, man. Just having crazy erotic dreams about Mrs. Kaspbrak." 

Bill winced, laughing even as he cringed. "G-g-gross. Beep-beep, R-Richie." 

Richie swung his legs out of bed, reached over Bill's side of the mattress, and smacked the jabbering alarm-clock silent, smiling a little when he saw a messily folded pile of his own clothes on the dresser- the same clothes he'd worn last time he'd been here, washed and smelling like Bill. "You're a good housewife, Billy-boy." 

In a move that Beverly would have approved of, Bill reached behind his back to flip Richie off without so much as looking up from his drawing, so Richie just grinned and got dressed. Underneath the folded jeans, he saw a small black tube with a spray-nozzle, only just bigger than a tube of lipstick. 

"What's this?" he asked, picking it up and looking it over. 

"P-p-pepper spray. I w-want you to c-c-carry it with y-you all the t-time." 

"Bill..." 

_"Richie."_ There was that voice again, the Big Bill voice. Richie sighed and slipped it into his pocket. 

"You're lucky I 'uh' you, you knucklehead." 

He felt smug when he saw the tips of Bill's ears flush red, remembering their conversation the night before, then wandered downstairs to hunt some cereal. 

Bill was _still_ drawing when the time to leave rolled around, and Richie returned to knock gently on the side of his head. "Earth to Bill. Time to go. What's got you so obsessed? I thought you only drew at night." 

He playfully hooked his chin on Bill's shoulder- partially because he wanted to see, partially because Bill looked soft and warm in his gray sweater- and looked at the notebook... then stiffened. 

This drawing used a lot more graphite than most of Bill's works; in this, the negative space of the drawing was almost completely black. Two slitted amber eyes peered out from the tendrilous darkness above as a wide, curved, toothful smile. 

"Something in a d-dream I had," Bill explained, not noticing the way Richie's body went ramrod-straight, the way his hand grabbed a fistful of that gray sweater. "Cr-creepy, huh? I c-c-couldn't get it out of m-my head." 

Richie kept staring at the drawing in some dim fear that if he looked away for even a second, something would step out of the lined pages and- 

_Billy's in the tree._

"Oh, l-look; th-they're here." 

Against his better judgment, Richie took a quick peek out the window and saw two boys pedal on bicycles to the edge of the Denbrough pumpkin patch and then stop, waiting. Stan and Eddie: Richie's own personal entourage here to chaperone him to school like Cinderella in her goddamn pumpkin-coach. 

Bill closed his notebook- Richie immediately felt the tightness of his chest loosen fractionally now that that thing was no longer _looking_ at him (it wasn't; drawings couldn't look, drawings couldn't _see..._ )- and stood, reaching for his backpack. 

"Time to go," Bill said, and smiled when he managed the full sentence without a stutter. Richie smiled back, convincingly enough that Bill didn't question it, just handed him his bag, and they trecked their way downstairs to meet their friends. 

_The friends that I don't deserve,_ Richie thought glumly, shivering a little. Then- _Billy's in the web. We're all in the spider's web now._


	12. Chapter 12

Richie thought that he'd never been so surrounded. He and the other Losers had always been close, but this was bordering on ridiculous. He couldn't take two steps in any direction without Stan, Bill, or Eddie- or any combination of the three- tripping him up somehow with _"Where're you going?"_ and, _"Wait! Just let me grab my stuff."_ Privacy was a thing of the past.

Richie, extroverted soul that he was, took longer to grow weary of this guard-dogging than most kids might, but after two weeks of this constant vigilance, the charm was beginning to wear thin. 

Stan's shoulder pressed against his arm- a sure sign that they were now in the company of Mssrs. Bowers and Hockstetter- and Richie's head snapped up from where he'd been flipping through his assigned reading as he walked through the hallway decorated with Homecoming posters and Halloween decorations: _'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.'_

"Stan," he said, irritably, when he saw the two older boys disappear around a corner without so much as giving them a second glance. "You freak me out more by doing that than _they_ do." 

Stan looked genuinely affronted by this. "I'm only-" 

"- Trying to help, I _know."_ Richie heard the edge in his voice- felt the edge in his chest. If he didn't shut up fast, he'd probably say something mean. 

They'd been dancing around this thing, he and Stan, since Stan had first dragged the truth out of him. Richie almost wished they could just fight about it already, fight until they were tired and ready to stop. Something about the way Stan was assuming such responsibility for Richie's wellbeing, ordering him around like he was a grown-up and Richie was just some dumb kid, grated like no other. 

Even sleeping in the same trundle bed as Stan, as he'd been doing for the past few nights, had a new tension to it. The number of times he'd wake to Stan just _looking_ at his face like he was waiting for him to _do_ something- what? Grow tusks? Start floating like the girl in the Exorcist?- was becoming alarming. 

Richie turned left when they reached the end of the lockers, instead of right, which would have brought them to math class. 

"Where are you going?" Stan frowned, and reached for his sleeve. _Always tugging, pushing, pulling like a little kid holding his mom's hand in a busy parking lot._ Richie yanked his sleeve free. 

"I have to _pee,_ Stanley, is that alright with you?!" Richie demanded, so loudly that they got more than a few curious stares from passersby. 

Twin spots of pink appeared high on Stanley's cheeks from the attention. "We're running late-" he twitched his own sleeve up to show his watch. 

"So tell the teacher I'll be right there!" Richie was already squirming through the thick hallway crowd as fast as possible. _If he follows me, I might lose it and just scream in his face,_ he thought, panting and frustrated. _Just need a break, is all, just one little..._

He was outside the little-used backdoors beside the main bathrooms in a second, the cold air hitting his chest and sparking his lungs, and he sighed in deep, deep relief, leaning his back against the bricks of the school and staring up at the white sky. 

Already, he was feeling guilty for leaving Stan cold like that. Stan meant well- meant the _best._ He loved Richie like the brother he'd never had, and Richie loved him right back; fiercely, protectively. But he was driving him crazy. 

From his pocket he pulled free a pack of Winstons and a matchbook. There were no windows around this side of the school, so naturally there were a _lot_ of cigarette butts littering around. He lit the match with a flick of his thumbnail, bringing both it and the cigarette to his mouth and breathing in deeply. _God._

His hair brushed his neck as he shook it out of his face. It was getting long and shaggy again; long enough that soon his teachers - or Mr. Uris- would start nagging him to get a haircut. He realized with some amused delight that if it weren't for his taped-together glasses, if he were a little taller and beefier, he'd look a complete delinquent right about now. Maybe he should work more on his Greaser voice. _Ayyy, whatchu lookin' at, punk?!_

Approaching footsteps brought that thought right out of his head; he nearly inhaled his entire cigarette and coughed mightily, pounding his chest with a fist. His first thought was, unsurprisingly, not of teachers catching him breaking several rules at once. It was still, _clown,_ then _Patrick._

Ridiculous. He was ridiculous. He needed to get over it fast or he'd be jumping at shadows for the rest of his life. _One day I'm going to be bigger than Patrick,_ he reminded himself. _Bigger. Or at least stronger._ Sure, Patrick was tall, but he was a bean-pole. Richie looked like his father, and Wentworth Tozier was a giant of a man. _When I'm bigger than him, nobody will be able to hurt me._

He almost believed that. 

The pattering of footsteps- pattering! Clowns and Patrick Hockstetter did not patter!- neared and a shy girl called, "Hey, Richie! I thought that was you!" 

Aw. Betty Ripsom, all dolled up in a shiny pink parka, her cheeks and nose glowing the same color from the cold. She was smiling, but on seeing his cigarette, her dark eyes grew wide and her mouth opened in a little 'O.' He awkwardly tried to hide it behind his bag. 

"Ayy, Dollface," he tried the Greaser voice. This brought new color to her skin and she actually covered her mouth, giggling. "What's a beautiful dame like you doin' in a school like this? Let me take you away somewhere nice, eh?" 

This was fun. Making cute girls blush and giggle- that was Richie Tozier's style. Not hiding in corners from tall boys with his scared friends. This made him feel bold and real again. 

"I'm going to the library," she said, when she'd collected herself again. "My teacher sent me to pick up some things." 

"All by your lonesome? Now that ain't right. Let me go with you!" He dropped the cigarette, ground it under his shoe, and offered her his arm. This pleased her greatly- he saw it in the way her eyes grew bright and how she was unable to continue looking at him, but returned her gaze once more to her shoes. 

He was so into his character now that he considered tilting her face up with a knuckle under her chin, delivering a corny line about how she should never hide "them peepers"- before he lost his nerve. He had no more experience with girls than she obviously did with guys, so the walk to the library was concluded in almost awkward quiet. 

By the time he'd returned to his own second period (dropping Betty off at her own class first with a flirtily whispered, "See you tonight, Dollface,") he knew he'd been gone long enough to get in some real trouble- but he was in too good a mood to care. Some of the good mood ebbed away when he saw first huge relief on Stan's face- and then anger. 

"Enjoy your bathroom break, Mr. Tozier?" their teacher asked drily. If he'd been doing poorly in class, she'd likely have yelled at him. The class laughed- except for Stanley, who was still glaring. _Sigh._

"Sorry, ma'am," Richie clutched his stomach. "Me own pipes were all backed up, y'see." 

The class went from muffled giggles to uproarious laughter. Eighth-graders were definitely not too mature for constipation-themed jokes, it seemed. 

"Alright, alright, settle down. Sit down, Richie." But even Mrs. Duffer was fighting a grin. Feeling triumphant, Richie sat, and tried to ignore Stan's hazel eyes boring holes into his back for the rest of the period. 

* * *

Stan's mood hadn't much improved that night as he sat in the back of his father's station wagon next to a thin brunette girl named Hannah that he knew from Temple. Richie sat in the front seat, dressed in his nicest clothes with a small plastic box in his hands. 

"You know where the Ripsoms live?" he asked Stan's dad, who nodded. "Vaguely. We went to high school together." 

Of course. You either ran out of Derry as soon as you were old enough to buy your own Greyhound ticket, or you were trapped for life. It didn't let go easily. Newcomers were still a rarity; in decades' time, the town would grow. But as of now, it remained in quiet, stagnant stasis. It changed no more than the snowglobe in Bill's room; a city trapped in glass, where no outsiders could hear their screams. 

They were at a rickety apartment complex of Lower Mainstreet while Donny Uris scouted around, then smiled when he at last recognized the Chevy parked outside a gate. "Yep, I thought Dorothy'd still have that. It was her pride and joy back in the day." He parked next to the Chevy, then turned to look at Richie. "Alright, Richard. You're escorting a lady, so behave yourself, young man." 

"I know, I know." He'd been lectured a lot about this already by Mrs. Uris all through dinner. "No goofy voices, no swearing, no dirty jokes- not in front of her parents, anyway." He quickly climbed from the wagon before he could be scolded further and went up the metal steps to knock on the door, and was greeted a moment later by a shyly smiling Betty. 

_You make sure you tell her she looks nice, Richie,_ Mrs. Uris had sternly informed him while scooping extra mashed potatoes onto his plate. He didn't have to be told to say this, though- it was true. In a soft blue dress that looked to be quite warm, with her dark hair in curls down her shoulders and a dab of blush adding color to both cheeks, she was looking quite different from her normal self. "Wow!" 

He couldn't help but find this whole exchange fun. Her mother was easy to charm. He didn't even struggle unwrapping the corsage and attaching the small white lily to Betty's wrist- and then didn't let go of her hand after it was done. They posed for pictures; Richie laughed and nodded at the good-natured protective jibing from Betty's father. Her parents followed them out to the car as he opened the side-door for her, bending with their elbows on the window to chat with the Rabbi. 

Betty twisted in her seat to say hi to Stan and Hannah and then they were on their way to the Derry High gymnasium- post football game; pre dance. 

"We can walk the rest of the way, dad," Stan offered, when the traffic to the school became really congested. 

"No!" Mr. Uris insisted, so firmly that all four kids turned to look at him. He softened his tone. "No. Curfew, remember? You're _not_ to wander around tonight. I want you kids to have a good time at your dance, but do not go outside; do not wander the campus; stay within shouting distance of an adult at all times; keep an eye on each other; and if anything funny at all happens, you're to call me right away, understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Uris," Betty was the first to speak, looking down at her hands. The others were quick to agree. Because her good mood seemed blown, Richie slipped his hand back into hers and was gratified to see her smile return. If only his other problems were so easily solved. 

At last they were at the drop-off zone- Richie felt a funny knot in his stomach when he saw that two police officers waited by the doors to the gym: officer Bowers and officer Neil. Butch gave them a long, hard look as they stepped out of the Station Wagon. 

"Evening, Donny," he called through the open window. 

"Evening, Butch." 

Oh, there was enough frost between them to chill a bottle of soda. Apparently, the officer had not forgotten his last encounter with the Uris family. 

Seeming unbothered by this, Mr. Uris reached a single hand towards his son, and Stan allowed him to gently squeeze the back of his neck. 

"I love you, Stanley." 

Some teenage boys would have gotten embarrassed at public affection from their parents, but Stan was a practical soul who took it for the casually-veiled worry that it was. "I love you too. Don't worry; I'll take care of everyone." 

"I know you will. Have fun, kids!" 

He was chased away from the school by a line of minivans honking their horns irritably. The night air was chill, and the looks Stan continued shooting Richie, chillier still. They seemed to say, _'you heard my dad. No more disappearing acts.'_

Yeah, yeah. Who'd died and made Stan the boss, anyway? 

He slid an arm around Hannah's waist, so Richie did the same with Betty, and they nervously stepped between the two stern officers and into the heavily decorated and very packed gymnasium, where speakers pounded all the latest hits that bounced off the tile floors and cement walls. _It's kind of hard to enjoy a dance when everyone's afraid they're about to be murdered,_ Richie thought, noticing how most kids had moved in close clusters with their friends in the corners, and teachers stood watchfully by the doors and windows. He was a little surprised they were even having a Homecoming dance at all; hell- they'd discussed cancelling football practice. 

"You want some punch?" Richie asked Betty, and she nodded, so they got in line at the refreshment table, pressed close together by the sheer number of dancing bodies in the room.

"Oh great, _you're_ here," a sarcastic, teasing voice behind him caused him to turn his head. He was unable to stop the genuine smile that crossed his face when he saw Beverly in that same white cotton dress she wore every other day. Around her throat was a new necklace, though- long enough to hit just above her naval and holding a single silver key. Richie felt warmed the second he recognized exactly which key it was. 

"Ew; who invited _you?"_ he asked, but it was undercut by the smile he couldn't shake. Betty frowned, startled by his rudeness, but said hello to Beverly just the same as she scooped punch into a plastic cup. 

"I'm going stag," she said. "Honestly I'm just here for the food. And I heard the Huggins kid was selling weed." 

Richie couldn't tell if she was kidding or not- it didn't matter. At the mention of the tallest member of Henry's gang, Richie looked around anxiously. Sure enough- there in the corner. All four of them: Henry's pack of dogs. His stomach sank. He hadn't thought they'd _want_ to go to something as dumb as a school dance. Maybe, like Beverly, they had only come for the food? 

"Are you okay, Richie?" Betty asked in her sweet voice. "You look pale." 

"Oh, hey, it's _Beaver-ly!"_ crooned some meat-head on the football team with an IQ smaller than his age, roughly bumping her hip with his and sending her crashing into the table. "I heard you'll blow a guy for five bucks; wanna make good on that offer?" His hand slid down her lower back and towards her ass; he'd evidently been drinking. 

Before Beverly could get them all kicked out by causing severe bodily harm, Richie snatched her hand, keeping hold of Betty's as he went. "Actually, she promised me this dance," he said, getting in the jock's face. It was stupid, but seeing people paw at her- not that she was his friend or anything- made him feel gross. 

Surely, the dumb jock wouldn't try to beat him up here, in such a bright and crowded place with all the teachers watching? He didn't wait for the guy to come up with a good comeback; simply pulled both girls with him to the middle of the dance floor and let the crowd of overheated bodies serve as meat-shield camouflage. 

"Why didn't you let me kill him?!" Beverly asked, having to shout to be heard where the music pounded, ear-splittingly loud. 

"Because I wanted to dance with the two coolest girls in school!" Richie shouted back. The uncertainty on Betty's face warmed a little at the compliment. 

"I don't know how to dance..." she admitted. Beverly surprised them both by reaching for her. 

"It's easy! Just do what I do..." 

Truth be told, Richie didn't know how to dance, either; drunken stripteases be damned. He just flailed and shook his limbs, hamming it up as always, alongside the two girls. It was kind of fun, and nobody seemed to care. They awkwardly shimmied their way through _'Hungry Eyes', 'A Groovy Kind of Love,'_ and _'I Want You Back,'_ with Richie and Beverly trying to out-do each other with ridiculous, dramatic moves. This got Betty laughing so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks, smearing her makeup, and she slumped against Beverly, insisting they had to stop because she couldn't breathe. 

_This is what life could be like,_ Richie thought wistfully. This _had_ been what life had been like. Doing dumb things with friends for the sake of making them laugh. Maybe life could be this again- simple, easy kids' stuff. If only... And oh, but he felt eyes on him. Eric Carmen didn't know the half of it when he'd composed his top-fifties hit; Patrick's eyes were so hungry that Richie wondered if there'd be anything left of him once he'd gotten his fill of looking. 

"Let's go take a break," Richie advised, and slipped his arm around Betty's shoulders to help support her as they pushed through the crowd to the far wall- away from the direction those unseen eyes burned. 

Stan and Hannah were dancing close to the wall, in a proper box-step, of all things. Stanley's forehead was actually furrowed in serious concentration- far more so than the latest radio hits warranted. If Richie had had laser eyes to see into Stan's brain, he knew his thoughts would just be counting his steps. _One-_ two-three- _one_ -two... It made him smile. 

It also made him want to tease Stanley until he went red in the face and said something like, _'Not everyone dances like a Bird-of-Paradise in heat, Richard.'_ He suddenly wished they weren't having this weird not-fight; he missed his easy, teasing friendship.

"Richie!" a small form hurried to his side, and Richie blinked, startled to see Eddie approaching, with Bill following not far behind. 

"What are you guys doing here?" Richie asked. "I thought you were gonna wuss out because you didn't get dates!" If Stan put them up to this because he wanted Richie's body-guards to be with him at all times, Richie was going to grab him by his olive-green bowtie and strangle him with it. 

"Well... Eddie _r-really_ wanted t-t-to go," Bill said. He was dressed nicely, though his suit was a little too small in the wrists and elbows. Bill was growing like a weed; even taller than Stanley now. "S-s-so I snuck him out." 

"Aww! Spaghetti-Man; did you want to dance with me that badly?!" Richie reached for Eddie with grabby lobster-claws. "Come with me! Let me show you off, you handsome devil, you!" 

Bill saw that Beverly was standing with the group, and immediately went red as a plum, his jaw dropping. "B-B-B-B-B..." 

Oh, Christ. Richie tried hard not to roll his eyes. He almost succeeded. "Bev, Billy; Billy, Bev. You might know each other from the oft-mentioned face-sucking incident of 1982. Don't worry, Bevvie; he's still a good kisser. I keep him well-practiced." He shot them both a wink, causing Beverly to smirk. Bill looked as though he were contemplating how best to quickly die, and whether or not he could take Richie down with him as he did so. 

Beverly reached above them and wrapped the dangling tail of an orange and black balloon around her fingers- they were everywhere, and the strings kept smacking everyone in the face as they danced. "Well, are _you_ up for dancing with me, Denbrough?" she asked Bill with a brilliant smile. "This weakling wussed out on me after only three songs." She elbowed Richie in the back so hard that he wheezed. 

Bill clearly didn't trust himself to speak. Still red-faced, he nodded, blue eyes comically huge on his young face. He allowed her to drag him off. "You're welcome!" Richie mouthed silently behind Beverly's back. 

"Wow," Betty watched them go. "He sure likes her a lot." 

Richie and Eddie exchanged an amused glance. "That's putting it mildly." 

"She's all he ever talks about," Eddie complained, leaning his back against the wall and taking a puff on his inhaler. "We rode doubles on Silver. I swear one day he's gonna kill one of us on that bike." 

Richie cautiously leaned against the same wall as Eddie was, peeking at him out of the corner of his eyes. Eddie had taken the news of what was happening to Richie quieter than the rest... Very quietly, in fact. He didn't seem to have much at all to say to Richie lately. 

_He thinks you have AIDS,_ Richie thought. _But he doesn't know how to ask._

Well, shit. Even if Patrick _did_ have some sort of disease; even if Richie _had_ contracted something... how the hell was Richie supposed to know? It wasn't like he could march up to Patrick and ask. _"Hey, Patty-boy; remember those times you choked me on your dick? Was that dick, by any chance, infected with something?"_ Shit; what did Richie know about AIDS? Nothing; that was what. Maybe Eddie was right to be wary of him. Unease at the new anxiety tugging at him made him squirmy, and he firmly added it to the pile of 'Don't Think About It.' 

He felt dirty, all of a sudden, and tried to subtly pull his arm away from Betty's, to stand still in his own bubble and not contaminate anyone by mere proximity. 

"Hey, Eds- I mean... Eddie," Richie said, and felt unaccountably relieved when Eddie turned to look at him, surprised at the correction from the hated nickname. "We should hang out sometime; just us. It's been a while." Even if hanging out was just sitting in Mrs. Kaspbrak's stifling-hot living room and playing Scrabble, it'd be fine. Just so long as they were still okay with each other. "Want me to help you work on that car-thing you were building this weekend?" 

Eddie waited so long to answer that even Betty, a stranger to all things Losers club, sensed the awkwardness. "I need to go to the ladies' room," she excused herself politely, and shuffled off. 

Eddie continued looking at Richie; small and wide-eyed in his old-fashioned clothes. Richie began to fidget. "Eds... are we cool? You still... you still like me, right?" Fuck; he sounded so pathetic. He needed to shut up now. _Maybe he thinks you're a whore, too. You know that's what Stanley thinks about you. Little faggy queer-boy sucking dick for the creepiest guy in school. They're all gonna hate you. They all_ do _\- even Bill. He's just pretending to be nice. They-_

Eddie finally interrupted him just as the anxiety really began to set in. He slid over so that his side brushed Richie's, and leaned his head on Richie's shoulder. Richie let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, deflating like an exhausted, relieved balloon. 

"I just don't know what to say," Eddie admitted. "I don't know how to keep you safe. I don't understand any of it, and I'm scared. I hate it. I hate all of this." His inhaler was back between his lips in a second; two puffs in under ten minutes; a record. 

"Yeah, well... me too, Eds." 

"Every time I look at you, I... I see him all over you. My brain goes crazy trying to scrub it out and then just sees worse and worse things. I just want to erase it. I want to erase him. I want it to all go away." He sounded miserable. Richie tilted his head so that his cheek rested atop Eddie's head. He hated that Eddie now saw him that way. 

"I'm still me, Eds. Please don't act like I'm any different. I'm just your humble servant, Trashmouth Tozier." He wished he could convince himself of that, too. The sound of his Toodles the Butler voice made Eddie smile. _Just act normal for his sake. If you can convince him, that's all that matters._

"I don't even know if I should touch you," Eddie said, so quietly Richie could barely hear him. Richie's heart sank. _He think's you're dirty. Filthy. He-_

Richie tried to pull away, but Eddie's hand clamped around his arm. "No, not like that!" he insisted, eyes wide. "That sounded so bad, Richie; that's not what I meant at all. I mean... do you... do you even still want to be touched? Is it still okay? Does it hurt you? Am _I_ hurting you? I-" 

Richie lunged for Eddie, wrapping him in his arms and squeezing him tight. "Eddie," he groaned "Eddie, stop. You're making me crazy. I'm just me. You're my cute little buddy." He pinched Eddie's cheek, feeling quite hysterical. "Cute, cute, _cute!_ Oh... Eddie. Just be you, okay? I..." 

Here he admitted what he could not to his other friends. "I'm not okay, Eddie. I'm not, not even a little bit. Stan's annointed himself Judge, Jury, and Executioner of my life; Bill is acting like I'm some fragile flower to protect... I'm losing my mind. I'm twitchy and scared all the time and sometimes I just want to cry. I'm losing it. I need... I just need something, just _one_ thing, to be normal for me. I... _Eds..."_

Eddie's arms briefly came up around Richie, fingertips tugging in the folds of his shirt as he hugged him back. There was a surprising strength in those skinny arms. He couldn't remember the last time Eddie had _hugged_ him- in their six years of friendship, that just wasn't something they did. 

After a moment, Eddie gently pushed Richie back, looking up into his face with a little frown on his own. "Richie," he sighed. "Do _not_ call me 'Eds'." 

Richie giggled, a relieved, snuffly sound, and wiped at his misty eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Thank you, Edward Spaggedward. Thank you." 

Then, something strange happened. 

Richie couldn't explain why he and Eddie looked up at the same time, why their eyes flew instinctively across the room, all the way on the other end of the gym. They searched the crowd, looking- and then lighted upon the lithe frame of a nicely-dressed boy dancing with a couple friends. He stood out in the crowd, and not just because he was one of the few black kids in Derry. There was just something about him that seemed to glow. His smile was beautiful as he danced. 

"Isn't he that homeschool-kid?" Eddie asked quietly. 

"Yeah... on the Hanlon farms. I bet one of his friends asked him to come to the dance." 

Why were they _staring_ at him, though? Sure, he was a nice-looking guy, but they'd seen him around before. They were being creepy. Richie turned to Eddie to say just that, but noticed something: Eddie, too, had that subtle, quiet glow that the Hanlon boy had. And... Stan, as well, doing his nearby dance with Hannah. He was almost golden compared to her dull frame in that moment. 

Richie knew, without having to look, exactly where Beverly and Bill were. He couldn't see them in the crowd, but he could Feel them, same as he could find his own nose even with his eyes closed. The sense of united connectedness was almost spiritual; Richie had spent time in a Methodist church growing up, and had attended a few Jewish events and parties with Stan. 

The sensation that overcame him now- the music hushing, the peace and calm and sense of Rightness that settled over him in that moment- felt very similar to that of stepping into a church and bowing his head to pray. There was a sense of something Other, something bigger, lingering in the fringes. His insides practically hummed with an awed Knowing: 

_The gang is (almost) all here._

The dreamy moment lasted mere seconds, and then it was gone. The volume of the music was loud as ever. Time resumed its natural progression. Eddie no longer glowed. He lost track of Stan, Bill, Beverly, and the Hanlon boy in the crowd once more. 

"What the _hell_ was that?!" Eddie demanded, and Richie was terribly grateful that he had; he wasn't alone in this weird epiphany. 

_Almost all here._

_Almost._

_... Billy's in the web. We're (almost) all in the web._

Richie worked to shake that odd feeling. "You think someone spiked the punch with poppers or something?" he asked, half laughing, half-serious. "Maybe we're all tripping balls and we don't know it." 

Eddie looked horrified at the suggestion. His jaw dropped, but before he could screech, a form knocked into Richie, so hard that he tipped back and his head smacked the wall. _What the fuck?!_

He followed the retreating figure as it ran across the gym, knocking into people and hardly seeming to care. Betty Ripsom was running, almost drunkenly through the crowd on her way towards the exit doors, her face buried in her hands. She looked as though she were crying her eyes out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual assault and kidnapping TW

Eddie gawked after the fleeing girl, his mouth hanging wide. "What's the matter with _her?!"_ he asked, incredulous. They watched as she reached the door that lead into the school's hallways and Coach Black caught her by the arm, mouth opening to ask her a question.

She pulled her arm free to scrub at her face. Whatever she'd said was enough to convince him to step aside and let her pass into the hallway. 

Richie started after her, but Eddie grabbed hold of his wrist. "We're supposed to stay together!" Eddie insisted. "Stan-" 

So Stan _had_ put Bill and Eddie up to this. Of course. Richie tried not to sound too annoyed as he twisted his arm free of Eddie's grasp. "Yeah, well she's supposed to stay with us too, isn't she? And she's my date. I'm supposed to make sure she's okay." 

Eddie looked uncertain, but Richie power-walked away through the crowd before the smaller boy could make any further protests. 

Coach Black gave him a funny look when he reached the door. "You that Ripsom girl's date, Tozier?" he asked. Richie nodded. 

"I'm gonna find out what's wrong and bring her back, okay coach?" he asked. 

"See that you do," the man grunted. "No funny business, okay?" He rubbed his balding head, his tired eyes. "Lord, I'm too old for this teenage drama." 

Richie darted under his arm and out the door. There wasn't much at this part of the school; just the changing rooms that lead out to the multipurpose grassy field that served for football, baseball, track... 

He paused outside the girls' changing room, his hand on the locker. He could get in big trouble for going in there, but it wasn't like there'd be anything to see. It was just an empty room for now, and maybe Betty had curled up inside. He forced himself to turn the door handle. 

It was no different than the boys' changing room: showers in the far right; small gym lockers throughout; an office for the girls' coach in the back; benches to sit on as one tied their shoes. 

And no Betty Ripsom. 

The door in the very back, past the coach's office, was unlocked however, so he stepped outside into the ever-chilly night. "Betty?" he called, voice hardly louder than a whisper. 

He saw a fleeing shape in the dark, sprinting across the dewy field, and raced after it. Betty had a head start, but Richie had longer legs; he was wearing trousers while she, a long dress and heeled sandals. He caught up to her when her feet went skidding out from under her and she landed painfully on the wet grass, skinning her elbows. 

"Betty!" he panted, and bent over her, offering her his hand. "Betty, what the _hell-"_

"No!" her eyes were wide and fearful as she leaned away from his hand. "No, don't touch me..." Tears had smudged her makeup down her face. She looked positively broken. "He... he said if I ever touched you again, he'd-" 

Oh. 

Well. Maybe he should have seen this coming. 

"Was it Hockstetter?" he asked gently. 

The look on her face was answer enough. Whatever he'd threatened her with, it had scared her bad. She believed his threat and, without even knowing what it was, Richie believed it, too. 

"Okay," he said, withdrawing his hand. "Okay. I won't. You don't ever have to talk to me again, if you don't want to. But... but go back to the school, okay? Go find Stan. Call your parents- something. Don't run around after dark... Bad things happen in Derry after dark." _And in full daylight._ "I'll take care of him, okay?" 

He doubted she was even listening. She'd doubled on herself, shaking like a rabbit with its foot crushed in a trap. New tears slipped down her face, and she fought down a wail. "He said he'd- he'd... My _mom..."_

"I'm sorry," Richie said, hopeless and guilty. "I should have known better than to... to take someone out. I'm so sorry, Betty." 

The sound of a nearby car pulling up to, and then idling alongside, the soccer field caused both kids to look up. Richie was unsurprised to see Belch's blue Trans Am awaiting him like a train to hell; nor was it any shock to see just who the driver was. 

"Hey, puppy. Long time, no see." 

Betty, it appeared, had risen to a point above fear: of pure, blank numbness. She froze, a white-faced statue sitting under the light of the moon. Goosebumps stood out on her arms, and her lips trembled. 

"Betty, go back inside," Richie said quietly, when Patrick slipped out of the car and approached them with his slinky, loping gait. _"Betty!"_

She didn't respond. Diving, Richie gripped her under her arms and hauled her to her feet, pushing her back in the direction of the school. She was stiff as a board under his hands, and a cold sweat made her skin clammy. If she were someone like Bill or Beverly, she might have ran or fought- but that just wasn't who she was. When pushed to the brink, Betty Ripsom froze. 

Then Patrick was on them, oozing like the noxious waste he was. Gently, he pushed Betty's messy hair off her face, smiling down at her. He spoke in a soft, pleasant voice, a voice one might use while talking to an injured animal, as he petted her. 

"Didn't you hear me earlier, you stupid little cunt? Weren't you _listening_ when I told you what I'd do if you came near my things again?" 

At this last word, his fingers knotted harshly in the thick hair close to her scalp, wrenching her sideways. She cried out, hands flying to protect her face from his fist. 

Richie slipped between them, smooth and intuitive as an otter, and drove the hard point of his elbow forcefully into Patrick's diaphragm. In his minds eye, he saw himself taking it even further: _crush his instep, then bring your knee into his balls in one move._ He could have done it, too, knew he could; he had the element of surprise... but not the strength of heart. His courage failed him even as Patrick doubled and wheezed for breath. 

He tilted his head, fixed surprised, streaming eyes on Richie's face. Though Betty had broken away from him and ran several paces towards the school, there were still strands of her long, dark hair caught in his fist. 

As he struggled for breath, Richie grabbed him by the loosely knotted tie around his slender neck, wrenched him so close the breath from his words blew his hair from his face: "The fuck are you touching _her_ for?! You're only allowed to do that to _me._ " 

He then stole what little oxygen Patrick could take in by kissing him so hard their teeth clacked. 

* * *

Stan had to admit that dancing wasn't for him. He knew he was doing it right- he'd practiced with his mother for what felt like hours the day before, after Richie had told him he'd be going to the dance with Betty Ripsom. It'd been a frantic scramble after that- finding a date, acquiring some flowers, bribing Eddie and Bill to show up despite their deep reluctance to do so. He couldn't let Richie go alone. To leave Richie alone now would be to lose him... maybe forever. (Nine missing kids and counting, and you know who's behind it, Stanny-boy, yes, you do.) 

Every day he told himself to go to his parents, to tell them all the horrors Hockstetter had done. But to do that would make him lose Richie just as surely as handing him right over to Patrick with a bow on his head. Richie wouldn't ever forgive him... 

He knew it was pathetic, childish, selfish. The guilt gnawed on him. ( _If he doesn't take Richie, he'll just take someone else, and then it'll be_ all your fault _for keeping quiet._ ) 

He'd tell the next day, he consoled himself every night, watching the rise and fall of Richie's chest in the bed beside him. _Just let me have him for a few more hours, please... Please don't make me lose my friend._

The song ended, and Hannah pulled away from him, tossing her hair from her face. "Stanley, I'm thirsty," she said, shaking his hand off of hers, and made for the refreshment table on her own. It was a relief to see her go. He knew he wasn't being a very good date right now, and that only added to the guilt. He liked Hannah; she was always nice to him, always whispering the correct pronunciations as they practiced their Torah reading together. She deserved to have a better time than this... but his mind simply wasn't on the Homecoming dance. 

He turned to where he'd glimpsed his friends leaning against the wall, and found only Eddie now. Frowning, he quickly approached his smallest friend. 

"Where is everyone?" he asked. 

"Bill's dancing with Beverly," Eddie replied, and pointed. Sure enough, he saw glimpses of Bill in the crowd, red-faced but smiling like a lovestruck idiot with _Beverly Marsh_ in his arms. Stan doubted if he'd notice a firecracker being lobbed at his head, he was so deep in la-la land. 

"Richie ran out there after Betty," Eddie continued, pointing to the back doors, looking proud to have such useful information. "She was crying." 

Stanley stared at him, cold fingers of dread grasping his stomach and giving it a squeeze. "He uh. He what?" _Stay calm, stay calm._ "Why was she crying?" 

Eddie shrugged. "Don't know. She left for the bathroom and then she just ran away crying, like I said. Richie chased her. That's all." 

Stan whipped his head around, searching, seeking. There was Belch, at the refreshment's table, his hand on some senior girl's lower back. Criss, slouching next to the speakers. And by the front doors was Henry, lips drawn into a tight line as his father lectured him. 

_Where's Hockstetter?!_

"Go get Bill," Stan said, and was proud when his voice came out without shaking or breaking. "Tell him to follow me. Then call my dad. Tell him... Tell him everything." 

Eddie's eyes widened. "You don't think-" 

Stan was already hurrying for the doors. He didn't 'think'. He _knew_. 

* * *

Patrick recovered from his surprise quickly enough. It wasn't as though the blow to the chest hurt- he processed pain differently than most people- but the inability to draw breath had, briefly, rattled him. Now though, his anger was returning. He wanted- needed- to break something. To see it bleed.

Richie was playing tough right now in front of the girl; it was pretty cute. It'd be even more fun to make him cry, though. He allowed the hand that fisted in his hair to tug his face down, shivered pleasurably as Richie's sharp little teeth nicked his lip and his tongue rasped the split in his skin raw. He obligingly parted his lips, permitting this facade of control. He kept his eyes open, watching Betty over the top of Richie's head. She gawked at them like she'd been bashed with a club and could no longer trust her own eyes. 

Still watching her, Patrick slid his hands down Richie's back to the backs of his thighs, knocking his knees out from under him as he brought his legs up around his waist. Richie broke away from him, letting out an alarmed little sound- this, evidently, had not been part of his plan- and Patrick carried him easily to the side of the Trans Am, propping him against the frame of the car as he dug Belch's keys from his pocket. 

"Wait-" Richie protested. "I'm not getting in-" _Not so tough now, huh?_

When he struggled, Patrick slammed his body more firmly down until he was trapped like the beatles he so loved to jam sewing needles into, eyes fever-bright as he watched them die. He managed to wrench the passengers' side door open, and then he was half-throwing Richie into the car like a ragdoll. He slammed the door closed after him and then stood with his back pressed to it, so that Richie couldn't bust out and make a run for it. He'd been needing to have a little chat with the pup for weeks now, yes he had; and he wouldn't be getting away now until they exchanged words. 

"You want to come, too?" he asked the Ripsom girl. "There's plenty of room. Can't say I'll be bringing you back, though... well. Not all of you, but how's about I save a piece for your mother?" 

This was breaking the rules... a little. He was fairly certain she wouldn't talk- not after he'd held her so very still and painted a detailed picture with softspoken whispers of what he'd do to her cat and then her mother should she run her mouth. But this- this here, what he was doing now? This was a level of rule breaking that could get him in much deeper waters than ever he'd been in before. (The town of Derry suspected what he did with unguarded housepets, but didn't have enough proof to say the words. Would the town's silence hold for this escalation? He suspected so.) 

So long as he didn't force the town's attention, everyone in it was more than happy to pretend they didn't see him. He preferred to keep it that way as long as possible. 

And oh, how she ran. The gym coaches would have been proud- they'd have been demanding she join the track team for how fast she sprinted at that, leaving her shoes behind in the grass like some twisted Cinderella retelling. 

He laughed as he reopened the door and squeezed his lanky body into the car and on top of Richie's, shoving him until his back bowed painfully over the armrest and his head thunked the drivers' seat. It had clearly occurred to Richie that he was in deep shit now, because his mouth was downturned in a panicky little moue and his hands rose to push at Patrick's shoulders. Patrick snorted, pinned his wrists onto the cushion above his head with one hand. 

"I think I like you like this," he observed, watching Richie's face go red with panic and frustration, and he dropped his head to Richie's neck, sinking his teeth in hard until copper flooded his mouth. Richie fought making noise as long as he was able, which wasn't very long at all. When Patrick glanced at his face again, he saw that Richie's glasses lenses had gone foggy. 

"Let me take care of that for you," he offered, and plucked the frames off his nose, cranking down the window just enough to throw them out onto the soccer field. At the theft of his sight, Richie bucked more frantically, freeing a hand and diving for Patrick's pockets, searching for the car's keys. 

Patrick loved him for it, fiercely and strongly. Of all the things he'd ever imagined, Richie was right up there with Henry Bowers for being the most interesting. 

He managed to grab the keys, but Patrick took them back easily enough and dangled them tauntingly in his face. He wondered whether Richie intended to throw them out of the window, or if he was even desperate enough to try and _swallow_ them. (He wondered dimly if he could _make_ Richie swallow keys someday. The thought made his cock give an interested twitch, thinking of the jagged metal traversing a soft throat.) 

"What, you don't want me to take you for a ride? Don't want me to take you away from your little friends?" He felt the second his smile became a snarl. "Because you know what I think? I think your friends have been taking you away from _me_ an awful lot lately. And that doesn't make me too happy. We have a deal, don't we puppy?" 

Every time. Every time Patrick came looking for his favorite little happy meal toy, wanting distraction, wanting entertainment, he was surrounded by others: the Jewfag with his distrustful eyes; the stutterer who carried himself like a knight in shining armor. _Just try and take him from us,_ their eyes challenged. Well, challenge accepted, then. 

"Do they touch you, puppy?" Patrick asked, popping the button on Richie's nice slacks. He gripped the flaccid cock through his underwear to get his point across. "Do _they_ touch what's mine? Do I have to take care of them, too?" He squeezed harder; hard enough to make tears swim in those brown eyes. He didn't hesitate to bend and rasp his tongue over a petal-thin eyelid, drinking in the salt, liking the way the taut curve of his eyeball felt. 

Richie shook his head frantically, lips bunching. "N-n-no, not ever!" he squealed, half in disgust at the lick and sounding a little like the stuttering boy. "They don't- don't- don't hurt them, please-" 

"Hm." Patrick slid off of Richie, pushing him out of the way when he got into the drivers' seat (most of his body fell onto the floor; Patrick smiled when he sat up and fumbled for the door handle, proud that he'd remembered to set the child safety lock beforehand. No impromptu escapes for this little puppy! 

Richie cried out as turning the key in the ignition loudly made the engine purr. Good horsepower under this hood; nothing but the best for Mr. Reginald Huggins and his friends! 

"Please let me out," Richie whispered. "Can't we stay in the field? I'll blow you. I'll do whatever you want, man; just don't take me-" 

"We need to have a talk, somewhere with privacy." Patrick checked the rearview mirror- he didn't have his license yet, but he was a good driver; better than Henry by a mile, because he understood rules and he knew how to follow them to the letter, when it suited him- and backed onto the road, making a u-turn to head away from the school and towards the inevitable destination. "I'm pretty pissed at you, you know," he explained conversationally. "But I'm sure we can make it right." 

He almost regretted that this would have to be the last time they had together. He couldn't break the rules _this_ badly and expect to remain out of the loony bin if he brought back evidence- so, disappointing as it was, he'd have to break this toy until it could no longer share his secrets.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger-warning for rape.

"I'm coming with you."

Beverly's voice in the darknes of the school hallway made Stan jump about a foot in the air before Bill's hand caught him by the elbow. "Wuh- _we_ are cuh-coming with you," he clarified. 

They didn't have the time to argue. Stan pushed ahead into the hallway. He started for the back doors, but Beverly made a small noise and pulled him by the back of his shirt. "Look." 

She pointed; he followed with his eyes to the floor. There were scuff marks outside the door of the girls' locker room; the kind that sneakers would never leave, but nice dress shoes just might. 

"Richie?" 

She shrugged, nodded. _Maybe. Probably._

Stan pulled the door open without hesitation, calling, "Richie? Betty?" 

Nothing. Not a sound. 

Bill pressed into the room ahead of Stan, and Stan saw that his fingers were entangled with Beverly's. She took his hand as well, and Stan was grateful; it was eerie in this part of school at night; so dark and quiet. He squeezed her fingers reassuringly, and she squeezed back. The cheerful dance music filtered through the walls, sounding echoy and ominous. 

They pressed forwared through the locker room, walking so quickly that Stan barked his shins on a low bench and stopped, swearing quietly. Beverly let go of him and went to a box of equipment in a corner, digging around noisily until she produced two chipped wooden baseball bats. If they wanted a third, they'd have to raid the boys' locker room as well, so Stan reluctantly let Bill take the spare. The two of them had more upper body strength than he did. 

"What do you know about this?" he asked Beverly, searching for more black scuff marks on the floor. He wouldn't drop too many of Richie's secrets, but he did need to know she was on the same page. 

"Some. Not much. I know Hockstetter has it in for Tozier, and I've seen the way he looks at him." 

She didn't need to say any more; Stan found the scuff marks at the back door leading to the soccer field. 

There were so many stars out that night, he noticed as he pushed the door open. It was nearly cloudless despite the tiny sliver of moon above. He didn't have much time for stargazing, though, because he saw a figure in blue sprinting towards them- Betty- and the deeper blue of a vehicle taking off. 

"Belch's car," Beverly whispered, and then she and Bill were running like warriors towards it, leaving Stan stumbling to catch up. They were taller than he; longer-legged, and physically stronger; he was left in their dust as he scrambled and slid over the wet grass. 

_I'm not good enough,_ he realized with dawning horror. _I try and try and try and I still can't protect anyone._ Richie was going to die, and it was going to be all his fault. 

Betty zipped past them like ghost trains passing in the night; the two ahead of him didn't spare her so much as a glance. Beverly slid feet first like she was diving for home plate, bat swinging. They were approaching fast; if they had had Bill's bike Silver, they might even have managed to make it. The smell of the car's exhaust pipe was strong in the still, cold air. This was an oddly silent rush. 

Beverly's bat connected with an earsplitting crack to a tail-light, shattering the thing entirely in hunks of flying plastic and glass and denting the metal of the car around it. Patrick- Stan could see him now, reclining casually in the drivers' seat- extended a hand out the window, raising his middle finger before stepping on the gas. Beverly ran forward and swung again, denting the truck hugely. 

Bill ran round the side of the car to the passengers' seat, not bothering with words- he wouldn't have been able to get any out anyway- but just uttering a single wordless roar. When Stan caught up to him, his heart punching his ribs and his lungs screaming for air, he saw Richie plastered against the window, shouting incoherently. "Richie!" Stan barked. "Roll the fucking window down!" 

If he just managed that, Bill would pull him out. Big Bill always saved the day, that's what he was _for._ Then, once they had Richie back in their grasp, let Patrick _try_ and take him away. 

Patrick hooked an arm around Richie's throat, dragging him back as he again moved to stomp on the gas pedal. 

Bev got there first, running around the side of the car to swing at the windshield, which splintered and cracked as a spider's web. In Patrick's distraction, Richie managed to wriggle- not away from him, but onto his lap. He wrenched the steering wheel around, nearly driving it over the sidewalk and onto the soccor field. Bill would have been hit, had Stan not jerked him backwards and fallen with Bill's weight crushing him breathless. 

"Let him go!" Bev screamed at the car. Stan couldn't see what was happening in there, but based off her shrieking, it was ugly. The rage in her voice was at least half naked fear. "Stop, you bastard- you're going to _kill_ him- stop!!" 

Abruptly, the car stopped it's forward progression. It reversed, tires squealing as they backed once more off the sidewalk, and then made an about face for the road. Bev tried to swing again, overbalanced, and fell on the road on her ass. 

The car switched gears and roared off into the night, squealing round a corner without heed to the stopsign. The damaged tailight dangled from its socket on a single black chord, looking like a cartoonishly popped eyeball. It loudly banged the bumper with every forward motion. 

Without hesitation, Bill scrambled to his feet and raced after the vehicle, heels flying. Bev rolled, groaning, to her hands and knees, then back up to her feet. When she lifted her bat, she noticed it had splintered right at a crack near the top, breaking into pieces. Her knees and palms were blackened and bleeding from the road, and her dress was torn. 

She strode purposefully to Stan, seizing him by the wrist and pulling him up. "Come on!" she barked. "He was beating Richie's face into the steering wheel; we need to go find a car!" 

Stan froze when he felt something digging into the small of his back. Rolling to the side and putting his hand on it: he felt cold metal against his skin. 

"Oh... " he whimpered, staring down at the crushed remains of Richie's glasses in his hand. Unable to help himself, Stan began to cry. 

* * *

"Mmf." Richie groaned quietly. The wrinkling of his forehead made the dried blood crusted there start to flake. Patrick glanced at him, then back to the road. He'd likely concussed the boy- grabbing him by the hair and slamming his face down three times on the steering wheel, as emotionlessly as a chef might crack an egg- tended to have that effect. Not that it mattered. 

Patrick was more upset by the car's current battered state- well, not _upset,_ precisely; Patrick was rarely upset. He knew Belch would be angry at him, and it would be so tedius to be nagged about it. _Nag, nag, nag..._ Plus, he could hear the taillight thumping. If he tried to drive over county lines, some cop was bound to notice. _Scratch that plan, then,_ he thought, drummping his fingers on the wheel. 

"How 'bout some music, puppy?" he offered, after a while. Richie was in no state to answer, so Patrick slid a tape in the deck anyway, a little put out. He'd expected this drive to be more fun. Damn annoying losers, ruining everything. 

Richie groaned again at the loud bass thrumming through the vehicle, pulling an arm up over his ear. Patrick smiled; he was cute like that, blood and all. "Almost there," he soothed. "We're going to your favorite place. I remembered how much you liked the Neibolt house..." 

At the sound of the building where he'd pretty-near had an anxiety attack in his arms, Richie's eyes flew open. Ohh, but his pupils were huge; he really had banged his head hard enough to bruise that big brain. This would be fun. "No!" Richie protested. "No, Patrick- don't take me there... There's. There's _things_ in that house!" 

Well. He wasn't wrong about that. 

Patrick had discovered the house several months ago- the same day that Denbrough brat went missing, coincidentally enough. Out of pure curiosity, he'd gone in through the basement window, falling into the coal chute, and decided to have a look around with the vague hope of finding something valuable or entertaining. 

Feral cats often took up space in vacant houses, especially in the rainy months. There were plenty of rats to feed them. As long as he wore oven mitts and thick, long-sleeved t-shirts, he could usually catch the cats and have some fun; no problem. 

He found no cats (though plenty of rats), nor did he find anything worth stealing. But he had discovered a tall, dirty refrigerator downstairs that brought back memories from his childhood; the old Frigidare in the town junkyard had been a great source of entertainment back when he was Richie's age, and this fridge... well this fridge was a dead ringer for his old animal-trapper. Even some of the smudges and stains looked the same. 

He'd actually crowed in delight upon the discovery- the nostalgia! Those had been the best moments of his childhood, before Manny went and took the darn thing down and spoiled Patrick's fun. He could relive some of the glory days. 

He spent a good forty-five minutes chasing down rats until he managed to catch a slow one, then carried it to this new fun-box. 

Only, when he'd opened the fridge, something had come over him. It was empty, sure, but also not. There was a substance to its emptyness. He'd closed his eyes and felt hands caress his face, fingers stroke his hair. 

"Welcome home, Patrick," a voice like dry Autumn leaves whispered into his ears, and he'd dropped the forgotten rat to the ground. 

After that, things began to change. Patrick changed. He grew smarter- or at least, quicker in putting thoughts together. Craftier, too. And luckier- half the stuff he and his friends pulled off, together or apart, they would surely have gotten caught for in the past. 

_"I ask only one thing of you, Patrick,"_ the voice in the refrigerator told him, day after day, soothing and reasonable. _"Do not let the seven unite."_

He didn't really understand what that meant, not yet, but he didn't let it bother him. He'd figure it out in due time. He thought he might be on the right track, though. 

_Do not let the seven unite._

Seven what? Was Richie one of the seven? What did the voice in the refrigerator want with him, exactly? 

A trickle of unease ran like sweat down his back- just for a moment, but unmistakably there. Was he the one using these gifts the voice in the refrigerator offered him... or was _it_ using _him?_

Richie regarded him half a moment, the cracks on the windshield casting shadows on his face that made him look like a broken porcelin doll. Then he clenched his jaw, determination in his eyes, and cranked the window down. 

"What are you- hey!" Patrick grabbed for Richie's belt as he forced his upper body out of the window and brought a knee up, climbing out. At thirty miles an hour, impact with the road might not kill him, but- 

Patrick jerked Richie back into the car as forcefully as he was able, but the car swerved and even as he relaxed his grip, Richie was trying again, scrambling like a rodent. "I'm not going back into that house, Hockstetter!" he roared. "You'd have to kill me first!" 

"That can be arranged!" Patrick yelled back, swivelling his head back and forth from Richie to the road. This was bad. If someone saw... 

He slammed on the breaks, set the car into 'park', and then wrapped both arms around Richie's waist, dragging him back into the car once and for all. Richie opened his mouth to scream, so Patrick slammed a hand over his mouth and nose, pressing hard. It didn't take long for his struggles to fall still. 

* * *

Richie woke with the biggest headache he'd ever experienced in his life; a sickening thing that made his stomach roil. His mouth tasted horrific- had he already vomited?- and the dim light above seared through his eyelids. 

"You awake?" a familiar voice asked. 

He brought a hand over his eyes, using his other senses for information. It smelled musky and dusty wherever he was; like a bag of old laundry found in the back of a closet. The surface he lay upon was soft, and a little rotten. 

A weight caved the springs underneath him, and his body rolled involuntarily towards this new source of warmth. "You're a real pain in the ass," Patrick remarked conversationally. "You and your friends." 

"I want to go home," Richie croaked. "My parents-" 

"Oh, don't give me that," Patrick dismissed. "Your parents don't care about you. I did a little digging around when you were avoiding me; your house has been empty for weeks. Have they even noticed that you haven't been sleeping at home?" 

Oh, the thought of Patrick snooping around his empty house was not something Richie needed to think about just then. Or ever. He was hugely relieved that Patrick hadn't come by at a time when Bev had also been there. "My friends, then," he said. "They know you've taken me." 

"Yeah? What are a bunch of thirteen-year-olds gonna do about it?" 

"They managed to do a lot to the car." 

Patrick patted his ankle, mock-consolingly. "Aw, poor thing. You still don't get it, do you? The town is on my side. There are things in Derry, kiddo; big things- and I'm on the winning team. Nobody's gonna stop me." 

Richie fell silent for a long moment. It hurt to think. Then, so croaky and pathetic it made him hate himself, he asked, "Can I have some water?" 

Patrick shifted on the mattress- Richie was pretty sure it was a mattress- and returned a moment later. There was a snap of plastic as he unscrewed a lid; he'd come prepared. This whole thing was _planned._ For what, Richie wasn't sure, but he had a few ideas. It couldn't be anything good after what all had happened in the car. "Come here. Sit up." 

He was scooped against Patrick's side, clamping his teeth on a whine when the jostling made his aching forehead throb, and a bottle top was pressed to his mouth. He drank the lukewarm water down, spilling, and sank back in resignation when a thumb swiped moisture from his mouth. What more was there to do? He hurt too much to fight. 

"Are you gonna fuck me?" he asked wearily, head lolling onto Patrick's shoulder. "Because I feel half-dead and I might puke on you if you jostle me around." 

"You won't." Patrick shifted, shuffling in his coat pocket, and produced a tub of vaseline; the kind Richie kept in his own bathroom cabinet for small burns and chapped lips. Richie stared uncomprehendingly at the blurry label- fuck; he missed his glasses. He had an old pair in his desk at home he'd have to get as soon as he had the chance- and then Patrick dipped two long fingers into the jelly. It gleamed on the digits, thick and shiny, and all at once Richie _did_ understand. His stomach roiled. 

Patrick grinned, correctly interpreting the expression on Richie's face for the dim, dawning panic it was. He was savoring this grand, wordless reveal. "Come on, puppy. Shirt off- fold it nicely. And say 'thank you'- I didn't _have_ to bring the vaseline, now, did I? Go on; say it." 

Richie opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again; his voice had gotten lost somewhere in his throat. At last he managed a hoarse, whispery, "thanks." 

* * *

"Butch, I know that you replaced your soul with Jim Beam at least two decades ago, but even _you_ have to acknowledge that _a. Child. Is. Missing._ Are you a cop or not?!" 

" _Rabbi_ Uris, I'd strongly advise you not take that tone with-" 

"Oh, _stop,_ Butch. Don't put your hand on your gun like you want to threaten me; I'm so past caring that it isn't even funny. Richie is _missing_ and we know who took him. Get in your _fucking_ car and do something! Form a search party; call into the station; do _something._ " 

There was a long pause wherein Stanley's father stared Henry's father down while the former's son looked disparagingly back and fourth between them, amazed that now of all times they were having a dick-wagging contest. 

"Patrick molests Richie," he said, and both men turned to look at him. He continued, speaking around the lump in his throat. "I mean it's not the first time. Nobody should be surprised- it's not like he's kept it a secret. Ask any teacher. Patrick's been groping kids in class since elementary school, but nobody's done jack shit about it because nobody ever does _fuck all_ in this town. Nobody cares when horrible shit starts happening to us. It's like you can't even see it. You don't _want_ to see it." 

Only a few hours before, Stan would not have dared to use such language in front of his father, but now... Now. "Patrick kidnapped my friend and if he's dead by the time someone actually _does something about it,_ I'm blaming you." 

This was a lie: Stan would forever blame nobody but himself. He had held the secret in his hands too long, and it'd blown up in his face. Richie's death would be on his own hands. But he had to say _something_ to get these men moving. "Mr. Bowers, please find Richie. Please put Patrick in jail." Preferably a jail far, far away from them all. 

Butch regarded him with impassive, icy eyes. He had his son's eyes; it was very like being stared at by a much older Henry, and Stan resisted the urge to flinch away from him. He had to stand his ground. He had to do his part while Bill and Beverly rode Silver to Richie's house, then Patrick's, out of a faint hope that they may have gone to one of those locations. They both still had their baseball bats. 

"Young man," Butch said, in a condescending, 'I'm-an-adult-and-you're-the-child' voice. "Has it occurred to you that your little friend may have _wanted_ to go away with Mr. Hockstetter?" 

At Stan's blank expression, Butch continued, still smiling sweetly. "I can't arrest a man for being a queer, you know; much as I'd like to, it's all legal. So a boy dumped his girlfriend at a school dance and ran off with some fag- I mean- with his _lover._ And he tells all his friends, _'Oh, it's rape, it's rape,_ so he doesn't have to feel guilty about it, see? But the truth always comes out." 

Stan hadn't realized that his jaw had dropped in pure astonishment at what he was hearing until he again regained the ability to speak. "Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!" 

Mr. Uris dropped a hand on Richie's shoulder. "Come on, son," he urged, pushing Stan away from the school doors and back towards the parking lot. "We've wasted enough time here. Let's get going." 

Butch called something after them, but Stan's ears had started buzzing along with his quiet, shocked rage. If Butch had seen the expression on Richie's face in the car- _it wasn't the last face he'd ever see Richie make; it couldn't be. Stan refused to believe it!_ (He could already be dead _now_ and you know it, Uris)- he surely couldn't dismiss it as a lover's fling... could he? 

Regardless, Mr. Uris was correct: they'd wasted too much time already, and they had a lot of ground to cover. Stanley was just climbing into the front seat of the station wagon when an unfamiliar voice clearing his throat caused them to both turn. 

A tall, slender black man, about sixty years old give or take a few years (though Stan was bad at guessing any adult's age), greeted them. 

"Evening, Mr. Hanlon," Stan's father greeted, buckling his seatbelt and beginning to reverse the car. "I'm sorry- I don't have time to talk tonight; maybe some other-" 

"My grandson and I overheard what you were telling old Butch Bowers," Mr. Hanlon interrupted, and Stan noticed that Mike was standing nearby as well, listening. "We believe you, rabbi; it ain't right what Butch said. We want to help you look for the Tozier kid." 

Mr. Uris regarded both males with a deep respect and appreciation shining in his eyes. "I'd be much obliged if you did, sir," he replied gratefully. 

* * *

"Slow down- please-" 

"I love it when your voice gets all high, puppy." 

"It _ffffffucking_ hurts- Hockstetter, _please-!"_

"Aw, are you crying for me? You know I love it when you do. You're fucking _hot_ when you cry, Tozier. You should do it more often." 

Richie clamped his mouth shut, kept his eyes wide in the hopes of drying out his tears, fearing that if he blinked, more would fall. Instead, he tipped his head back off the edge of the dirty mattress Patrick had dragged down into the desecrated and filthy kitchen of the Niebolt house. He tried to turn his brain off, to slip away- but the hand on his hip, bending him nearly in half; the long dark hair tickling his throat; the sharp, stabbing pain between his thighs kept his attention hellishly present. 

_I wish I was dead,_ he thought, and then regretted it. His mother was very fond of the phrase, 'Be careful what you wish for,' touting that to even put words to a concept was to give it power. _I wish this was over. I wish I had the perfect joke to make this funny again._

He tipped his head back further, staring at the dirty scuff marks at the bottom of the unplugged refrigerator that Patrick had his palm braced against, giving himself leverage as he moved vigorously, enthusiastically. One of the stains vaguely resembled the shape of a turtle, and he allowed himself to focus on that instead. 

_Please, just let this end._

_Let it all end._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proceed with caution if you have issues with claustrophobia.

They picked Bill and Bev up on the side of the road just as they were leaving the Hockstetter residence; the Hanlon car trailing slowly after them, and Stan once more in tears from his father's sparse but very harsh words.

"Irresponsible..." "Children..." "Thought better of you, Stanley..." "What were you _thinking..._ " 

Finally, the Rabbi seemed to have grown too irate to even speak. He just gave deep sighs through his nose and, once, slammed a fist down hard on his dashboard with a " _"Damn_ it, Stanley!!" 

"I know," Stan had at least spoken up, looking down at his twisting fingers in his lap. There was absolutely nothing his father could have said that would make him feel worse than he already did. "I know, dad... I know, I know, it's my fault, it's all my-" 

He'd brought a hand over his trembling lips, knowing if he said anything more, he wouldn't be able to stop weeping. There wasn't time for this- there wasn't time for anything. Perhaps they were already out of time. 

This seemed to have the opposite effect of what he'd expected. Instead of continuing to yell, the Rabbi had pressed his eyes closed tight, took another deep breath, then a third. Finally, he'd reached over the back of his son's seat and touched the side of his face, tangling his fingers in his son's hair as he dragged him into a half-embrace. "No, Stanley," he said in a quieter voice. "It's not. I'm only so angry because I'm... very scared right now." 

Stan nodded. He, too, was very scared. 

They rode together, with his father gently petting his hair. Stan allowed it, feeling younger than he'd ever felt before, praying to any God that might be listening. First it was promises ( _I'll study my Torah harder, I promise, I_ promise. _I'll spend the rest of my life serving God if it means Richie will still be alive if - when,_ when, **when!** \- _we find him._ ) Then it became threats to higher powers, listing everything he could possibly do if Richie was past saving. Finally, it devolved into a single word, pleaded again and again: _PleasepleasepleasepleasePLEASE..._

His father abruptly slammed on the breaks so harshly that the Hanlons narrowly avoided rear-ending them. The tires squealed, and he cranked the window down. 

"William! You too, girl! Come here now!" 

Stan watched as Bill and Beverly, walking on either side of Silver, approached. They were heading out of a house on Kinsey street that Stan realized with a jolt must belong to the Hockstetters.

"Th-th-th-th-" Bill was stuttering too badly to speak, and not just because he was upset; the outside air had taken on quite the chill. Even Beverly's teeth were chattering in her dirty, ripped dress. She finished for him. 

"We talked to Patrick's parents," she said, clipped and angry. "They said that they haven't seen Patrick all night and, oh, we _must be mistaken,_ he would never do such a thing-" 

"They're lying," Stan interrupted bitterly. "They know exactly what he is. They just pretend they don't because, because-" Because how else did one cope knowing that they had created a monster and now had to live beside it every day? He wondered if his father would demand they search the house anyway, but he seemed to be feeling the time crunch as well. 

"Put the bike in Will Hanlon's truck," was all he said. "Then get in the backseat. I don't want you walking around in the dark any more, do you understand?" 

They didn't argue. 

Once they were driving again, they tried to brainstorm where Patrick might have gone. 

"He wouldn't have gotten onto the interstate with the Trans Am as busted up as you say it was," said Mr. Uris logically. "Derry police are good at ignoring strange, wrong things, but the rest of the world isn't. No, I'll bet you anything he's right in town." He, too, looked younger than Stanley had seen him in years: sharp. A glint in his eye. He was a man on a hunt; a wolf who's cub had been snatched from under his paws. It both frightened and thrilled Stanley: thin, tweedy old Rabbi Uris looked like a man who could do some damage.

Stan brought a hand to his mouth, chewing on the back of his knuckle. It was a habit he'd grown out of as a younger kid, but it'd come back in full flux tonight; he'd break the skin soon if he didn't stop. Bill leaned in from the back seat after a moment and took Stanley's hand, pulling it back with him so that Stan's arm was stretched out. He still couldn't speak, so he instead rubbed Stan's hand soothingly for him, pressing a thumb to the wet spot Stan couldn't stop biting, and then just held it. 

_Oh, Big Bill. Always saving us, even when we don't deserve it._ A peek in the rearview mirror showed that Bill was holding Bev's hand, too, and the sight made Stan feel a little braver. The three of them- four, if you counted Mike just behind them- were oh-so-much stronger than one. _We'll find our fifth. You bet your fur, we'll find him._

Now that he could think more clearly, Stan began planning out ideas, possibilities. The Standpipe? Unlikely. The Kissing Bridge? No way; there'd be plenty of couples steaming up the backseat of cars there after the dance. The library? Closed. The train tracks? _Maybe..._ the dump? He didn't think so. 

"Ruh-Ruh- _Richie_ s-s-says things in his suh-sleep sometimes," Bill managed to get out, and this spun Stanley's mind in a different direction. 

Sure, Richie was a sleep-talker. He'd always been. It was one of the reasons why sharing a bedroom with him was so annoying. He never shut up, day or night.

But he hadn't been talking much lately, so what was Bill going on about? Richie had been sleeping stiff and still as a corpse. The one time during that first night they'd spent together, Stan had reached for him in the night, alarmed by the way Richie didn't even seem to be breathing. He hadn't even managed to touch his shoulder before Richie had sat up with an almost rabid snarl, grabbed Stan by the collar of his pajamas, and hauled him so close their noses nearly smashed. 

" **There _was_ something there!** " he'd hissed, his vacant, starry eyes boring into Stan's terrified ones. " **There was something in-** " 

"Neibolt!" Stanley exclaimed, so loudly that all four of them jumped. "He said, 'There was **something** in Neibolt'." 

Bill nodded, relieved he wouldn't have to fight to say the word. 

Wordlessly, Rabbi Uris thrust a hand out of the car window, signaling to take the next exit. 

The Hanlon truck followed. 

* * *

It was so dark in here. 

Richie fought not to panic. Patrick was just playing games with him, scooping him up and shoving him, still dripping, still naked, into the filthy refrigerator and slamming the door closed on him. This was just... this was just another part of it.

He didn't properly fit; his legs were bunched and twisted underneath him and one arm was awkwardly stretched behind his back. He couldn't move, he couldn't- 

No. It'd be bad if he panicked here. Oxygen was so limited- he didn't want to pass out before Patrick came and took him out again, haha! How silly that would be. This was all so silly, right? Silly, silly- the boy in the big white box. At least it wasn't plugged in! That'd sure be chilly AS WELL as silly! Richie-popsicles, amirght, ladies and gentlemen?!! 

And the way he'd screamed when Patrick first lifted him up, oh, that must be part of the joke too. Richie wasn't screaming because he was scared- if he screamed, that would mean something scary had happened- which it HADN'T. Because if he was scared, then he was helpless, and he was - 

(Oh god oh god oh god someone help me, oh please let me out, I'm going to die in this rotten old house in this rotten old fridge I'm so scared I'm so _scared-_ ) 

Nope. Nothing scary. The tears dripping from his eyes were tears of laughter. The cum still sliding out of his ass? That... surely, there was a joke for that, too. A great old chuckalicious knee-slapper. His clothes that he'd been forced to fold up neatly as he removed them? How funny was THAT!! People didn't neatly fold their clothes up before they died. Who'd ever heard of someone doing something like _that?!_ Just did not happen, good old friends and neighbors. 

There was a clunking and a slamming as things shifted around outside, and Richie nodded to himself. Ole' Patty-boy himself had come back, was ready to pop that door right open and say, _'Surprise, puppy! I wasn't killin' ya. I was just given you the spooks on this fine Autumn night. Let's go practice your sparring; your right hook has come along real nice!'_

Only... it didn't sound like he was opening the door. In fact, when it shook and rattled, it felt like Patrick was laying something heavy against the top of it. A second and a third fell onto it as well, each more muffled than the last. He was- 

(I'm being buried alive. He's putting stuff on the door so I can't kick it open. He's gonna leave me here. _I'm going to die in this fucking crack-house with the clown, the clown, the clown is **here.**_ ) 

And suddenly, as though thinking the words had given them power, it became true. Richie was no longer alone in this cramped darkness. 

"Hey there, little troublemaker," a voice whispered into his ear. He smelled popcorn on the things breath; heard little bells, the _oom-pah-pah!_ of happy calliope music. The voice he'd been running from for weeks now. 

Richie's eyes rolled back in his head; he let out a little, low moan of terror. He was dimly aware that he lost control of his bladder as his heart threatened to give out in fear. "No, no, no, no, no, you're not, you're not, this isn't I'm not I'm _not-_ " he said, and his lips pulled back from his teeth, his breath left his throat in a little huffing laugh. "You aren't-" 

"I am, Richie. I'm in the web with you. I'll wrap you up in my silks and have a nice little feast of boy brains. Can't you feel it, honey? Can't you feel my venom paralyzing you where you rest? Come float with me in the filth and the rot. You'll never have to grow up now. Isn't that the best, most chuckalicious joke you've ever heard?!" 

"Please," Richie whispered, teeth chattering. He couldn't move his fingers and toes anymore. "Oh, please, God." 

"There is no God here, sweet boy. Just me and you floating in the web." 

* * *

Patrick zipped up his pants and stuffed his feet into his shoes, quickly walking from the Niebolt house. He'd done his work, and now it was time to exit the scene, as it were. Nobody would look for Richie here, in this forgotten and condemned house that only Patrick ever went inside. Sure, sometimes bums and junkies hung out under the porch, but they usually scattered come this time of year. Richie wouldn't be found for months- not until spring, at least, when the stink permeated to the other houses. 

The voice in the fridge had promised him that nobody would look Patrick's way. This was just one more missing kid among many. So what if those other Loser kids squealed? Grown-ups never listened to kids. _"You were seeing things, kiddo,"_ the adults would declare. _"That Hockstetter boy? He's harmless! Wouldn't hurt a fly."_

Belch would be angry about the car, but they'd fix it. It'd all be fine. All was well. Things were in pretty much tip-top shape here in the fine town of Derry! (Things were always good for those who joined the clown. His own special little friends.) 

He whistled to himself and climbed into the Trans Am- and then flinched when he saw aproaching headlights. _Well, shit._ Who the hell came down Niebolt street at this time of night?! 

Oh, and there were two sets of headlights. An approaching cavalry. And he knew in his heart of hearts that they already Knew. 

_You broke the rules, Patrick,_ the bright yellow beam of lights conveyed, trapping him briefly in their spotlight. _You broke the rules and now you have to go to the loony bin, just like Henry's always saying you should._

"Oh, fuck," he whispered. It wasn't often that Patrick felt emotions akin to fear. Even now, it was a very distant feeling, something in his fingertips as they wrenched the steering wheel and his right foot as he slammed the gas pedal. It wasn't in his head yet; it's slow spread had not touched his heart. He knew only one thing: _Gotta get out of here._

They were on him now, barely a yard away. 

Patrick was out of time. 

* * *

"Fuck!" Rabbi Uris screamed as the beaten old Trans Am raced away from their approach. "That little fucker is getting away!" 

Stanley thought, heart in his throat and knuckle back into his mouth, that he had never before heard his father use such language. 

Besides, a thread wrapped round his soul was twitching, tugging, burning. "No, dad, don't chase him," Stan protested, taking his father's sleeve. 

In the back seat, Bill and Bev nodded empathetically. 

"Richie isn't in the car anymore," Bev explained, already unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for the doorhandle before the car had even reached a full stop. "We can deal with Patrick later." 

A furrow appeared between Mr. Uris' eyebrows as he glanced at her to be sure she was serious. "How can you know that?" he asked. 

"I just do!" She was sliding out of the car and hit the ground running, and Bill was after her like a bullet. Stan spared one glance at his dad and then he was after them, too, right up the steps and to the front door of the crumbling old house that smelled of festering rainwater and rodent droppings. His heart was in his ears screaming, and together the three of them (soon to be four; Mike reached them in a moment) were beating mercilessly on the rotten old front door like giants crashing into a tower. 

"What in the world...?" old man Hanlon asked from somewhere behind them. 

The door swayed, creaked, buckled on festered hinges. They kept hitting until their fists ran bloody with sharp splinters and still they pounded, kicked, screamed; wild things on a wild night. _The seven must not be broken,_ something urged Stan. _Not yet- it's not his time._

He didn't fucking care about this 'mysterious seven' or its 'time.' Richie was in trouble, and they had a shot of finding him. They _must_ find him. 

Bev landed the final punch that sent the door cracking apart and sagging at the hinges, and more kicks from the four had it down and under their feet as they trampled it, ran for the kitchen. Exposed plumbing snaked out of the remains of what had once been a kitchen sink and an area where a stove and range probably had once sat. Broken cabinets housed families of rats who peered out at them, yellow eyes glinting. The eyes made Stan uneasy; though he knew, logically, they were only rats, he felt the presence of another predator among their greasy rank. 

(" **There was _something_ in Neibolt'"** Richie had screamed and oh, God, oh holy things, he was right; Stan could feel and taste it in the very air, choking the breath in his lungs and making his body chatter and dance violently. There are worse things than death. There are worse things than the devil, and they're all inside this house.) 

"Look!" Bev pointed, to a small pile in the corner. Shiny black shoes- size five- on top of folded black paints, a button-down white shirt, a necktie. _Richie's clothes._

The loud sob that left Stan's mouth startled all of them. Though they were near-strangers, he felt only comfort when Mike reached for him, hauling him close under one strong arm. Stan wasn't usually a fan of being touched by people he didn't know well, but he didn't mind now, not when Mike held him. There were bigger things at work here. He clung to Mike's arm like he might a life preserver. 

The adults reached them now. Skinny string-bean Mr. Uris and shorter, stronger Mr. Hanlon saw the clothes too, and both men exchanged a look, eyes hardening. 

"He's in the fridge," Bill said quietly, without a single stutter. His eyes were blue fire as they focused on an unplugged Frigidaire that had both a table and a mattress leaning up against it. "Richie is in the fridge." 

Stan broke away from Mike and barely made it in the corner in time to vomit profusely, the red punch spattering from his mouth looking like blood as it hit ancient, cracked tiles. By the time he turned back, the others in the room were throwing aside the weights keeping the door to the fridge closed. 

_It's too late,_ Stan thought in exhausted terror. _We're too late, after all that-_ He opened his mouth to tell them not to open it. That if he had to look at Richie's dead body he would just break into a thousand fractal edges and nobody would ever be able to put him together again. 

Mr. Uris carefully pried open the stained door of the Frigidaire. Richie's naked body, lips blue, eyes vacant, collapsed into Mr. Hanlon's arms.


	16. Chapter 16

**"Stand, be brave, be true, stand for your brother, your friends; believe, believe in all the things you have believed in."**

**\- Stephen King's _IT_ **

* * *

****

_"Oh, you silly young thing."_

"You dare call me that, you wretched beast?" 

_"I speak only the truth of what you are! You_ silly _cheat! No more fearsome than a child stealing pieces of a game so that he might preemptively declare himself the victor."_

"I am the eater of worlds. Destroyer of children. I am the mare that haunts the night; the knot in every noose. I do not play your games." 

_"You watched me from the start, too fat and lazy and complacent to stop me on your feast of stolen blood. How I encouraged Michael the Memory's sire and dam to sojurn to your territory and provide his seed and womb on fertile farmer's land to grow just and fair. How I so cleverly intuited my Edward with logic and wit into the ideal Compass. And you saw my influence as I introduced Stanley and Richard in time of strife and cemented a brother's bond as one became the Order and the other became the Heart._

_You've watched me test my Champion, my _Bill,_ time and time again to ensure he is ready for the task. How I most cleverly reared my Warrior Beverly in kindness and fairness and strength. You see how my Benjamin, with his mind of clever steel and wires and pulleys and plans is even now coming to the stage; he has become such a Creator. And you became afraid, at last. You see how they shine. You feel their power even though their chain is not yet complete. They are almost ready and ripe to defeat you at last." _

"Fool! I fear nothing. Not you, and not your ridiculous chessboard." 

_"So why then do you tremble and rage and stamp your feet? Why do you waste your energy filling your belly with eggs and fertilizing them with the collected fears of a millennia? Are you preparing for death?"_

"You dare?! I am _eternal,_ Turtle." 

_"Oh, pshaw. A young thing like you knows nothing of eternity. Your reign of terror on this tiny stretch of land- that I created, mind you- has barely lasted a measly twenty-two million years. _I_ myself, _creator_ of galaxies, have been around long enough to understand that I know very little at all." _

"That, at least, we can agree on. You know _nothing._ So what if the brat lives? My hell-dog has broken him beyond repair. The 'Heart' you so praise will never fight again, but will be lost in a web of nightmares until he takes his own life." 

_"If you believe that, then I don't think you know my Richard at all. The adolescents you raised from the dirt with hate in their hearts cannot touch them where it matters. He is stronger than you'll ever know. Softness is not weakness, but I know that is something you can't understand. He will endure, and return to fight another day, fierce and lovely as ever with fire in his smile and a storm in his laugh. I believe in Richard. I believe in my Seven. What have you to say to that, young one?"_

"I tire of games. I tire of players. The children you've wasted decades assembling and grooming may shine just a little, but know this: I will gnash them between my teeth and suck the marrow from their bones. I will make them watch as I tear their friends and their lives apart. I will eat your Heart's heart and then draw your Champion into my Deadlights for time and always. They will die afraid and insane and screaming because of _your beliefs._ This is what I will do to your precious Seven." 

_"Well, then. We'll just have to wait and see who is defeated and who stands victorious, won't we?"_

* * *

"You don't get to make that choice for me!" 

"Yuh-you weren't _there,_ Eddie, yuh- _you_ don't understand!" 

"I wasn't _there_ because you wouldn't _let_ me be there!" 

"Young men, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voices or take this argument outside!" 

This last statement was delivered by a nurse in mint-green scrubs, a clipboard clutched to her chest and a disapproving scowl on her face. The arguing boys quieted immediately, still radiating frustration and anger out of every pore. When she saw that they would, reluctantly, comply to her demands, she returned to her spot behind a waiting desk. 

The rest of Bill and Eddie's furious fight was conducted in whispers, with an uncomfortable Mike, Bev, and Stan trapped in the middle. 

It had been two days since they'd pulled Richie from the refrigerator at Neibolt house. Two days since Mr. Hanlon and Rabbi Uris had administered CPR, breathing for Richie and forcing a sluggish bloodflow through his blotchy, pale body. 

"It's like he forgot," the rabbi had mused in a dismayed, shocked voice once Richie began choking and gasping for air once more. "It's like he plum _forgot_ how to breathe, how to keep pumping his heart." 

"Scared to death," Mr. Hanlon said darkly, carefully peeling Richie's clamped-tight fingers from his arm so that he could remove his jacket and sling it over the boy's shivering form. "Almost. I've seen it in rabbits and in foxes caught in traps. They just... _give up."_

"Not a rabbit," Bill had said in that same eerie, unstuttering tone. "A moth in a spider's web." 

The four standing Losers had been clinging to one another, their stanching fear making them much younger than their thirteen years. Stan, from where he was tangled painfully tight between Mike, Bev, and the far wall (so close he was pretty sure he was filling Mike's lungs and pumping Bev's heart and thinking Bill's thoughts) saw Richie's eyes roll in his direction. 

Stan's knees had nearly given out a second time; it took Mike and Bev's conjoined efforts to keep him standing. He suddenly didn't want to look in Richie's eyes; was afraid of what he might see. He forced himself to look anyway. 

Richie's brown eyes were wide, pupils quite large in the darkness ( _Or,_ the rational, orderly part of Stan's mind interjected passionlessly, _He might be injured. A concussion is likely._ )

"Hey, Trashmouth," Stan said, trying to sound reassuring, and then cringed at how high his voice was. He sounded like he was talking to an infant; Richie _hated_ that. He cleared his throat and tried again. "We're gonna get you out of here, okay?" 

Richie continued to stare at him, so _blankly_ that it made the hairs on Stan's neck and arms stand on end. Was Richie even _in_ there anymore?! 

Just as he was thinking this, the refrigerator door, which had been gaping open like a hungry mouth, slammed shut with a loud bang. 

Richie's head fell back and he let out the highest, most ear-piercing scream Stan had ever heard in his life. It echoed in his head, clanging like church bells, so loud he had to clap his hands over his ears. On and on the scream ran; a banshee's wail, even as Mr. Hanlon scooped Richie over his shoulder and ran for the door. 

"Kids!" Rabbi Uris demanded, and snatched for his son's hand.

Holding onto each other, they left Neibolt house behind. It was only when they had reached the car that Stan realized Bill wasn't with them. 

Angling his head towards the door, he'd seen Mike scuffling with Bill in the doorway, trying to drag him out by the shoulders. Bill wasn't having it, and eventually managed to squirm free and make a dash deeper into the house. 

"What is he _doing?!"_ Beverly had squawked, trying to go after him, but Stan wouldn't- couldn't- release his death grip on her wrist. His fingers wouldn't unbend for all the world. 

They all sagged in relief when Bill reemerged, arms full of fabric with Richie's dress shoes clutched in free his hand, and allowed Mike to hustle him down the steps and into his father's truck, where Richie was still screaming his heart out in the passengers' seat, sending thrums of anxiety and spiked adrenalin through their shot-dead nerves. 

_He went and got his clothes,_ Stan realized, and felt a hot surge of gratitude towards the leader of their group. If he hadn't, they would have shown up to haunt Stan in his nightmares, he just knew it. Richie's empty clothes, folded and waiting for him in Neibolt house like a second skin. 

Stan and Beverly collapsed in a pile in the backseat as the Rabbi started the car back up. They were all shaking hard. Stan felt Beverly's fingers crimp little bruises onto his arm, but couldn't find it in himself to protest. Just like with Mike, he felt drawn to her in some quiet, inexplicable way. 

_It's because we're all in ITs web,_ he thought with dark clarity. _And nobody else can save us now._ He could still hear Richie's screams through two sets of closed vehicle doors. He was going to shred his throat raw if he didn't stop. 

At this, he found himself shaking harder than ever. Beverly had instinctively wrapped him tight in her arms and pressed her face into his curls until he could breathe again. 

_This is the worst night of my life,_ he thought, and realized that Beverly was crying; silent tears that sluiced down her dirty face. He reached towards the drivers' seat and into the glove box, pulling out a spare packet of tissues. She thanked him quietly as she dabbed her eyes, and he found that this little bit of control made him feel better. 

They were back on the main road- away, _away_ from the hell that was Neibolt street and grateful they'd never have to go back, not ever, not in a thousand years. 

When he'd dared look behind them, he saw Mr. Hanlon's truck take a left while they continued going straight. 

"Dad," Stan protested, anxiety flaring anew. " _Richie-_ " 

"William is taking him to the hospital," his father interrupted. "I need to take Ms. Marsh home. Beverly, I don't know Alvin well, but will he be alright with seeing my car in his driveway?" 

Beverly glanced down at her dirty, torn dress, her shredded knuckles and scabbed palms and knees, and gulped. "It's not going to be good," she confessed shakily. "But he's probably working late anyway, so maybe it'll be okay..." 

"Would you prefer to come to our house and clean up first?" 

It was amazing how calm the rabbi sounded, now that the danger was over. If Stan hadn't known him his whole life, he'd have thought the man was completely unruffled, but he saw the set to his jaw and eyes: the man was deeply worried. He wished he had as much control over his own face and trembling hands. 

"That's not a good idea," she said quietly, folding her arms and scooting subtly away from Stan. "You don't have any daughters. Daddy wouldn't like me going to a boy's house, if he knew." 

Stan and the rabbi exchanged a look in the rearview mirror. Her body language was easy enough to read. 

"How about this. I'll take you to your neighborhood and drop you off, and you can walk to your apartment by yourself? You can say you had a terrible time; slipped and fell in the parking lot on a puddle. I need to check on the Ripsom family anyway." 

"Dad-" the Ripsoms were no doubt livid at them, if Betty was still crying over whatever Patrick had said to her. 

"It's the right thing to do, son." 

Beverly worried a thumbnail with her teeth. Stan cringed at the chewing sound, turning away to stare out the window again. "Alright," she finally agreed. "Okay."

Two days later, Richie's situation hadn't much improved. The hospital staff sedated him, but found they could not bring him once more out of his coma. Even his parents had agreed to fly back into town when they'd heard how serious his condition was; they'd be in Derry before nightfall. This was the first day they were allowing visitors into his room, and Bill and Eddie's constant fighting since the night of the dance had reached new heights. 

Richie's mother made a big show of giving a damn. The night before, Stan could hear her voice screaming at his father on the other end of the phone line all the way from his room. _"What do you mean he repeatedly stops breathing?!..... Oxygen machine?!..... But why? What is_ wrong _with him, Donald?!!_

There were a lot of things medically 'wrong' with Richie- he was concussed; bruised; scraped. He'd experienced (Stan cringed at the words) _rectal abrasions_. But after the stitches and the antibacterial shots meant to boost his immune system after a CT scan and medication to reduce his brain's swelling... well, what then? What explanation could be offered for Richie's continued fight for his life- the continued flatlining and restart of his heart, the machines that had to do his breathing for him? 

"Head injuries sometimes cause strange reactions," the Rabbi told Maggie Tozier, parroting the words the nurses had told him. He wanted to believe it, Stan could tell. In a few days, he'd have fully convinced himself of it: the trauma had caused the screaming, and nothing more. The fridge? Why that had just been blown shut by a wind. 

Stan couldn't blame his father for the rapid closing of his mind; he was, after all, was an adult. Grown-ups needed to wrap themselves up in a cocoon of normal or they'd become like Stan- twitchy and afraid and jumping at shadows. Stan himself, his mind a logical, orderly place, rejected everything he'd seen, everything he knew. It kept him awake at night in cold sweats. He was irritable, jumpy, listless, and had no appetite. His mother was already dropping bombs like ' _maybe he should see a therapist, Donnie..._ ' which just worsened Stan's mood. He _wasn't_ crazy. He didn't need to drive to Bangor and see a jeezly _therapist._ He needed... 

He needed to hunt both Patrick and this _thing,_ this... this IT... down and force them, at gunpoint if necessary, to _explain_ themselves to him. To put into words the magnanimity of their evil so that he could understand, so that his mind would stop rumbling over and over it like a broken washing machine. So that he could process, move on, _sleep._

And he needed to see Richie. 

"I love him just as much as you do," Eddie was snarling now, an inch from Bill's face. 

_And though he be but little, he is fierce,_ Stan thought, and caught Mike's eye. The cold war that had been waging between Bill and Eddie was tiresome, but this new argument was worse. 

"Eddie," Stan said, shifting in his uncomfortable, plastic emergency room seat. He spoke only because Mike and Bev were too new in their friendship to intervene and Richie was... well. "Bill was only trying to protect you when he told Coach Black to keep you at the school. You wouldn't have wanted to be there. It was... It was horrible." 

This only made Eddie angrier. If Richie were here, he could just make dumb jokes and flirt with all of them until they'd forgotten why they were even angry. Nothing felt right without him. "It's not Bill's _job_ to protect me. I'm the same age as all of you! Just because I'm _small-_ " 

"Your mom would have been furious-" Stan fell silent at the look Eddie gave him for that. He knew it, Eddie knew it; they all knew it. This was bigger than parents. This was as big as the unspoken thing that connected them all. 

Bill, however, was getting more and more worked up. His face had gone red. Gone was the quiet, authoritative leader at the Neibolt house; in its place was the thirteen-year-old child he forever pretended he wasn't. "W-w-what do yuh-you want me to suh- _say_?! I w-was just t-t-t-trying to k-keep you suh- _safe._ I c-c-can't lose you, Georgie!"

He seemed to realize his slip a second after everyone else had. Feeling their stares, his face slowly faded from red to chalk white. He pressed a shaking hand over his mouth, as though he could retroactively pull the word back. His eyes were wide and blue and innocent as a child's. In that moment, Stan knew something both heartbreaking and terrible: deep down, Bill knew that his brother was dead. He'd maybe known it since that first rainy day. It was the one truth he refused to admit to himself, that he'd been fighting hard from the get-go. 

Eddie was the first to break the silence. Though his expression was still complicated, still angry, a new kindness had blossomed as well. "Oh, Big Bill," he sighed, all the fight sapped out of him. "I'm not Georgie, Billy." 

"I kn-know," Bill whispered, staring, ashamed, down at his dirty shoes. "I'm suh-sorry, Eddie. I d-didn't mean..." 

"You're an idiot." Eddie was regarding Bill with intelligent, dark eyes. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms gingerly around his much taller friend. "And I love you. Don't you ever do anything like that to me again. I'm part of this group, like it or not." 

Bill melted into Eddie's hold, folding himself over the smaller boy and crushing him tight. If Richie had been there, he would have leapt upon them both, hugging them with his twig-thin arms. If he never woke up, Stan knew he'd never be able to replace him. Try as he might, he just couldn't hug like Richie could. 

The nurse from before was back. She regarded the five of them over the edge of her glasses, then cleared her throat. Bill and Eddie sprang apart, and everyone pretended not to notice how Bill wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. 

"You can visit your friend now," she said. "I trust you haven't forgotten the list of rules beforehand?" 

_Quiet voices. No touching him. No bumping the machinery. Be prepared to get the hell out if anything goes awry._ "We do." 

They followed her like ducklings down the intimidatingly long, white stretches of hospital hallways, shyly avoiding the glances of curious orderlys and patients. Richie's room was more a galley set into the wall, secured by a curtain rather than a door. She pulled it aside- 

And there was Richie. 

Stan pulled up short, eyes travelling dully over the half-reclined bed with plastic on either side to keep him from rolling out. The machines circled all around, beeping and dripping and recording information with exposed wiring, encasing him in a softly sterile sci-fi nest. 

In the middle of it all, in a paper-thin gown, lay Richie. He didn't look like himself at all; pale and still, mouth downturned in a frown. Hissing clear tubes snaked into his nostrils. Underneath his bruised-looking eyelids, his eyes were twitching ever-so-slightly in their sockets. His dark shock of hair spanned and curled over a thin white cushion. 

The nurse stepped back, leaving them to it, but left the curtain open as though worried they'd try to steal him. Eddie, glancing nervously at the needles taped into Richie's elbows, took a puff of his aspirator and then pressed closer to Bill's side. 

"Well, this sucks," Bev said. Stan was relieved she spoke first; he didn't know if he was able to speak at all. They nodded in agreement. 

Eddie reached into his fanny pack and carefully set Richie's spare glasses (they'd sent Beverly into Richie's bedroom to collect them) on his side-table next to the nurse call button and an untouched pitcher of water. 

Bill bit his lip, then reached for Richie. Stan stopped him with a hiss. "We aren't supposed to touch him-" 

Bill considered this, then shrugged and did so anyway. He curled his hand awkwardly around Richie's, careful not to dislodge the clamp around his index finger. Stan glanced anxiously over his shoulder, but saw no nurses glaring disapprovingly their way or paying much attention at all. 

"Huh-hey, buddy," Bill said quietly to Richie. "We m-m-m-miss you." 

Richie, unsurprisingly, did not respond. 

Beverly boldly took Richie's opposite hand. Stan, frustrated at them both, tossed his own hands into the air and sighed aggressively. There weren't even that many rules to follow, but of course these two stubborn oxes...

Then Eddie was sliding his hand into Bill's, and Mike was nudging the back of Stan's wrist, having already taken Bev's free hand. 

_Well... penguins and parakeets._ Stan allowed the bigger boy to take his hand, noticing how strong it was; warm and calloused. Even if he didn't understand this, he didn't especially _mind_ holding Mike Hanlon's hand. 

Reaching across the bed, over the lumps that were Richie's blanket-covered knees, Eddie completed the circuit by lacing the fingers of his left hand with Stan's right. 

The children then, as if by unspoken agreement, ducked their heads. Stan glanced uncertainly from Mike's gently moving lips to Eddie's fluttering eyelids and back, always back, to the blank, stone slate that was Richie's face. A face he could just as easily see in a casket. 

_They look like they're praying,_ Stan realized. But to who? And for what? 

He was tempted to ask Eddie, the group's Catholic, whether there was a patron saint for lost, trashmouthed boys brimming with inappropriate jokes and cheeky smiles and warm light. The thought made a bubble of frustrated, bitter laughter catch in Stan's chest. He dutifully held it back and closed his eyes and allowed himself, however briefly, to hope. To believe. 

* * *

He had been floating in a mental gray fog for perhaps a millennium or two... he'd quite lost track. Sometimes the gray lightened to near-blinding white and he felt himself ascending deeper into the unknown. _Can I move on? Can I forget at last?_

Inevitably, something always anchored him back down into the gray limbo. Something kept him tethered, much as he fought it. _Just let me go. Please._ Please... 

He'd once had a name, an age, a gender, a body... Friends... 

Hadn't he? He was pretty sure he had. Or at least, as sure as he was able to be of anything in this lost, empty void. 

There was nothing here but Nothing, and the oblivious white above and the hellish orange below. Unallowed to escape to the first, fighting with all his might to avoid the latter. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out. 

_"Just a little longer, my brave Heart,"_ a Voice in the nothing startled him by saying. It was windy, breathy, ancient as the farthest stars in space. 

"Who's there?" Richie asked, but recieved no further response. 

Some time- for there was no way of measuring its passing- something new happened. He saw a glowing- a shining. It was further from both the white above and the orange below- the first thing to prove that the universe was more than two dimensions. It was a halo of the warmest light he had ever seen. A circlet, glowing and pulsing with the raw conviction of childhood belief. It drew him, stronger than a magnet, more alluring than a siren's song. 

_"Go to them,"_ that strange, ancient, all-around voice advised. _"Let their love guide you home."_

Curious, he ventured closer to this warmth and felt it touch him. And he at last remembered exactly who he was. 

Richie Tozier opened his eyes and saw, blurrily, his five friends- old and new- gathered around him. They had their heads lowered, their lips moving silently, and he realized that both Beverly and Bill's hands were holding onto his, bringing him into some strange sort of holy-circle. 

His heart was filled with immense love and gratitude to wake like this. It was where he was meant to be; who he was meant to be with. He doubted he'd allow himself to be drawn back to the land of the living by anyone else in the world; not even the really cool rock stars. _These_ were his real rock stars right here, all gathered around him. 

He took a moment to look at them all, really _look._ To his right was his Big B-B-Billy-boy, staunch and brave and true. And then the loyal Spaghetti-Man himself, that little 'I'm-concentrating!' wrinkle forming on his brow that Richie loved so much. 

To his left, Beverly Marsh's scraped and scabbed and freckled hand was almost crushing his with the strength of her belief and determination. Wild horses wouldn't sway this force-to-be-reckoned-with of a girl. 

Beautiful Mike Hanlon was there too, and, though Richie barely knew him at all, it felt Right. He belonged there. He belonged side-by-side with all the Losers Club. 

At the foot of his bed, biting onto his lip, looking frustrated and hopeful, was Stan-the-Man Uris, and it was him that Richie focused the brunt of his fond smile on. He tried so hard, his Stanley. He was giving this weird prayer-circle gizmo the same 110% Stanley Uris treatment that he gave all things from schoolwork to birdwatching. 

_Hey, hey, hey! The gang's (almost) all here!_

When Richie shifted slightly, he realized that there were _tubes_ in his nose. 

The thought of all the boogers that must have collected on the plastic was the last straw. He let out a little sputtering laugh and, though it hurt his sore and thirsty throat, it felt _good_ all the same. 

Five faces shot up, wide, incredulous eyes focusing on him. Five jaws dropped. He gave them the biggest Richie Tozier patented smile he was able to produce, beaming until his cheeks ached. "Hey, guys."  

"Richie!" Eddie cried and, before anyone could stop him, he'd leapt onto the hospital bed, flinging his small weight directly on top of Richie as he attempted to either smother or hug the boy. 

Richie cackled in joy and squeezed him tight. "Eds!!" 

The machines linked to his arms did not like this, and loud beeping noises filled the small space. It was almost lost in the pandemonium as a flailing pile of arms and limbs encircled and held him tight. 

"Richie-" _"Richie..."_ "The Trashmouth is back!" "Ruh-ruh-Richie!!!" 

He tried to hug them all back at once, tried to gasp for breath, tried to giggle and hold them as his overwhelming emotions spilled over and stained his face into quite the wet mess. 

"I love you all. I love you so much!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a full and ongoing list of my work for the IT fandom, from fics to analysis to moodboards to voice acting, go here: [[Link](http://mugsandpugs1.tumblr.com/stephenkingsit)]


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

**"Bill looked from Mike to Richie. Richie met his eyes. And Bill seemed almost to hear the click- some final part fitting neatly into a machine of unknown intent. [...] _Oh God help us. Now it really starts."_ **

**\- Stephen King's _IT_ **

* * *

Beverly sat at their lunch table now- that was nice. And Mike had at long last talked his grandfather into allowing him to start his Freshman year at Derry High, so next year they'd have his company to look forward to as well. 

Sometimes Richie got the impression that other kids at school could sense that they were no longer just children, that something had changed between them. Perhaps they could see the way the four boys and one girl travelling through the public school's hallways glowed- unique and a little scary. 

Or maybe they were just put off by the rumors that followed Richie like a cloud. No matter where he went, opinions and whispers came, too. 

_"That's the kid who Hockstetter-"_

_"I always did think Tozier was a homo."_

_"I feel bad for him."_

_"I heard he wanted it and then got caught. Now all of a sudden he's crying rape."_

_"Pathetic."_

_"I believe him. You know what a creep Hockstetter is. He's been feeling little girls up since fourth grade."_

_"Have you seen Betty Ripsom lately? Her mom won't even let her come to school. Do you think Patrick-"_

And on it continued well into the final semester. Richie grit his teeth and snarled through his smiles. The other losers handled the new attention in various ways. Beverly growled and snapped and snarked, verbally dragging people through the dust and daring them to pity her friends. 

Eddie ducked his head and avoided eye-contact, pressing to Richie's side like a warm blanket as though he could physically shield him from their harshness. 

Stan froze people out, staring them down and cocking his head, a silent challenge on his resting face. When, inevitably, they broke the chilly stare first, he'd snort derisively and nudge Richie back in the direction they'd been going. 

And then Bill, sweet Bill. He'd just sigh and shake his head. "Ignore th-them," he said. "Th-they're too stupid t-to know wh-what they're talking about." 

People overhearing this would shoot Bill a glare, and he'd return the look with his same sad, understanding gray eyes. It was perhaps the worst weapon of all. 

It wasn't just students treating Richie strangely but the teachers as well... and at home, there were his _parents._

Wentworth Tozier made a grand show of cancelling his winter touring. "It's for my son," he explained to his agent. "I need to _be_ there for him right now." 

Apparently, 'being there' for Richie consisted a lot of _talking_ about being there for Richie... and not much else. He sat in his office much of the time, plucking out musical scores and swearing to himself as he erased and readjusted his sheet music. 

Maggie Tozier fussed over him the same way she fussed over everything: distractedly. "Are you doing alright today, darling?" she'd ask. The question seemed barely to have left her mouth before her eyes again glossed over, her flitting mind having already moved on to other topics a thousand miles away. 

Richie told himself to enjoy their company while it lasted, and not to think any more on it. 

He still rarely spent the nights alone. The Losers Club had made an art form out of climbing the railings to his bedroom window. Not that they had to- more than once, Beverly just unlocked his front door and walked right in, past Wentworth's office and up the stairs and into Richie's bedroom without being noticed. Sometimes she brought her own clothes; sometimes she yanked T-shirts and elastic-wasted shorts from his closet, changing quickly and climbing into bed next to him, her curly hair tickling his nose. 

Stanley visited less often, and Eddie hardly at all; their families were simply too attentive to make sneaking out very easy. Bill, though, Bill was there almost every night. On nights that Beverly _and_ Bill turned up, their responsible leader always stuttered an offer to sleep on the floor and was dragged into bed by the two other very like-minded losers. He never failed to blush when Beverly spooned him from behind; Richie thought it was adorable. 

Less adorable was the nightmares. Nasty things that left him sweating and shaking. Spiders and clowns and gleaming teeth in the dark; hands all over him, pawing and squeezing and breaking. 

"Hey," a hand on his shoulder always woke him. "Hey, shh- you're safe; I'm here. I love you, Richie." His friends' fingers wiped his tears away. Lips to the crown of his head soothed away his shuddering. 

They never mentioned it come mornings' light, but they got worse before they even started to get better. 

"He was right," Richie admitted on a Friday night, when Stan had been granted permission to stay over. His hands fisted in Stan's sleep-t-shirt, and he laughed bitterly. "Oh, God, Stan-the-Man, he was right. I wanted it. I asked him for it. I _thanked_ him for it." 

Stan sat back- withdrawing probably, who _wouldn't_ recoil from such filth?- and regarded Richie with his unfathomable hazel eyes. 

"Come on," he said, sliding out of the bed and holding out his hand. "Get up." 

"Stan, what-" Richie began, but allowed Stan to pull him out of bed, to slide his glasses back onto his nose and toss a jacket at him. "Lets go." 

Richie followed, not understanding, as Stan marched to the Uris' kitchen, grabbed an eighteen-pack of eggs, and then made for the front door. 

"Stan, the curfew-" if the rabbi found out that Stan was walking around after dark, he'd never let him stay over again. 

"Do I look like I care? Come with me or don't, but I'm going." 

Well. Richie very well couldn't let him go alone. He followed as Stan, eggs tucked under one arm, rode his bike onto a main road. Richie, though his legs were longer, still had to pedal hard to keep up, realizing belatedly exactly where they were going. 

"Stan--" he protested when they turned down Kinsey street and arrived at a sickeningly familiar house. 

"Which window is his?" 

Richie sighed, pointed. 

Stan slid an egg from his carton, bounced it in his palm a couple times, and then reared back, throwing it fastball-hard at Patrick Hockstetter's bedroom window. It exploded upon impact, sending minuscule shards of white shell and yellow goop flooding. 

" _Fuck you,_ you disgusting rapist piece of shit!" Stan roared, teeth bared, and chucked a second egg, a third. On the fourth, the window cracked, thin branches spiraling out from point of impact. Stan shoved an egg into Richie's hand; it was still cold from the fridge. 

"When we run out," he said, smiling horribly. "We'll move onto rocks." 

Richie gawked at him. This was nothing like calm, orderly Stan. This was much more of a Beverly thing to do. Had his oldest friend really been pushed so far? He didn't bother pointing out that Patrick hadn't been seen in town for weeks- it was rumored his parents had sent him to Portland with his grandparents until the drama died down. Stan already knew this. 

"If you can't do it, I'll do it for you," Stan said, and turned back to the window, chucking the fifth egg. "That's for hurting my best friend!" a sixth. "That's for telling him he deserves it!" 

Numbly, Richie took the seventh egg, curved back, and chucked it like a hand-grenade. "That's for making me say thank you," he said, a whisper and not a shout. 

Stan made a small sound and, glancing at him, Richie realized that he was crying. 

Richie gritted his teeth and between the two of them, they emptied out the carton. _For the fridge. For the bathroom._

Stan was openly sobbing by the time they threw the empty carton down and he reached for a handful of gravel; it sprayed out like buckshot. 

Richie, surprisingly, didn't cry. He was too angry to, just burning up all over, so hot he thought he might catch fire. 

Maybe Stan cried so that he didn't have to anymore. 

"You piece of shit," Stan said again, wiping at his eyes with his pajama sleeve. "You almost took him away from me forever." 

This clenched Richie's heart like a fist. He was unable to stop himself from diving for Stan, squeezing him with all his strength as the smaller boy broke down in his arms, shaking hard. 

"Stanny, Stanny," Richie soothed, rubbing his back. "I'm here. He didn't fucking win. I'm alive because of you." 

Richie saw something over Stan's shoulder- just the briefest flash of a Cheshire smile on the other side of the cracked and dripping window. His stomach knotted. _Portland, my ass._ He glared until it went away, and then he ducked his head, burying his face in Stan's springy hair. 

"He didn't take me away. I'm here. I'm not going _fucking anywhere."_

The anger- _rage_ \- was still flaming hot. Fueling him. Making him brave enough to smile, adding an inferno into his laugh. He would continue to win. He'd be victorious. He would demand his successes from the world, would crack it open like his own personal treasure chest and wrench out every piece of joy it owed him. This would not steal the laughter from his soul. 

Staring firmly at the now empty window, Richie extended his arms behind Stan's back, both middle fingers pointed straight up to the sky. He then continued to hold his brother until he was able to calm. 

"Ready to go home, Stan-the-Man?" Richie asked, bending to pick Stan's collapsed bike up for him, not minding the huge wet patch on his chest. 

Stan wiped his reddened eyes, tried an embarrassed little laugh. "Yeah. Sorry about that." 

"Don't be." _It's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me._ "Seriously. You're such a punk-rock motherfucking badass, Stan-the-Man." 

"You aren't so bad yourself, Tozier." 

* * *

Sooner or later, because it was Derry, the adults forgot. 

Not all at once, of course; nothing so dramatic as that. But the fading that had begun almost immediately after the event became harder and harder to ignore. 

Soon, Richie's parents were booking new tours, leaving him free to live at his friends' houses once more. 

Then the teachers stopped looking at Richie with that strange, knowing gaze, like he was a dead boy walking. This was mostly a relief, all things considered. 

But it sure hurt when it happened to the Rabbi and his wife. 

"Hey, Richie," Donald Uris said cheerfully one day, eyes innocent and unknowing. "You've been spending an awful lot of time here lately. Not that we mind, of course! But is everything alright at home?" 

Richie felt his smile fracture at the edges; it was a fight to keep it in place long enough to answer, "Oh, I guess I have. No worries, though! Everything's great." 

He spent the next few weeks with Bill instead, and tried not to notice how traces of Georgie's existence were also disappearing from the household. 

Another kid went missing. A little boy named Edward Corcoran, his face pasted up over the old missing posters. And, a few weeks later-- a girl. 

Betty Ripsom. 

Richie was still reeling from the abrupt and personal loss, seeing her face staring at him from posters every which way he turned. That shy smile that had so charmed him now made grainy in photocopied black-and-white on telephone poles and phone booths. He was so stunned that he didn't immediately realize Beverly was trying to get his attention in their too-warm first period class, spring sunshine from the windows cooking Richie alive at his desk. 

She eventually gave in and chucked a pink eraser at his head; it bounced off his dark waves of hair and landed in his lap. 

"Ow! What-" 

"He's back in school today. I saw him." 

There was no need to ask who 'he' was. Was it a coincidence that 'he' returned the same day the Ripsom girl went missing? Richie Tozier no longer believed in coincidences. 

"Oh," he said, feeling nothing at all. Maybe it would hit him later, as sudden as an eraser to the skull, but in this moment he was numb. 

"N-nobody's even glancing at huh-him twice," Bill muttered darkly. "T-t-too focused on the new n-n-news." 

"Right," Eddie nodded, looking serious as a young soldier. "Richie, I'll walk you to your lockers, and then Stan-" 

"No." Richie shook his head. "I'm not afraid of him. You don't need to walk me anywhere." 

"Bull _shit!_ " Beverly protested so loudly that everyone, including the teacher, turned to look at her. 

"Beverly _Marsh!"_ their teacher gasped and, although her tone was scandalized, there was no surprise in her eyes. Derry had long-ago decided that Beverly was a 'bad' girl. In their minds, it was never a matter of _if_ she would act out, but _when._

Bill leaned in to whisper to Richie as the sullen girl was loudly scolded. 

"I d-don't th-think that's a g-g-g-good idea, Ruh-Rich," Bill stuttered nervously into his ear. "At l-least B-B-Bowers has been leaving me alone lately. It c-c-couldn't hurt to have me there." 

It could. Richie didn't know how to properly explain it, aside from- "If he thinks I'm afraid of him, then it could happen again." 

Bill did not look convinced. Richie tried to smile. "I still have that pepper spray you gave me. I'm ready to use it in a heartbeat." 

The class settled down from Beverly's outburst, and the lecture began. Richie tuned it out- he'd brought his grades back up again- easier to focus on schoolwork than be alone with his thoughts- and then Beverly was nudging him, and ankle hooked around his under their desks. 

"If you're determined to be an idiot," she murmured. "At least take this." 

From her sock, she produced a switchblade with a wooden handle. 

One glance into her blue eyes was enough to tell Richie that arguing would be futile. Recalling Stan's knife that Patrick had taken from him all those months ago, he accepted it, slipped it into his pocket. "I'll give it back," he promised, and he meant it. Patrick would never take anything from him again. Beverly nodded. "You'd better." 

He tried to retain this bravery as he walked to his second period class, feeling alone despite the dozens of students surging all around him, going their own ways. This new news about Betty seemed to have driven all thought of his past dramas from their minds; no two faces glanced his way. 

Until they _did._

Or at least, two sets of eyes did. Richie felt them upon him like a physical weight. He swallowed hard, kept walking. Tried not to think of Bowers and _Hockstetter_ catching scent of him like a hyena might a half-dead gazelle. 

_Not half-dead. I've never been more alive._

Though he told himself this, it was all he could do not to yelp when a strong hand caught him by the backpack strap, tossing him back into the wall. 

"Cut it out, numb-nuts," Richie heard Henry speak behind him. "You wanna get fucking kicked out again? You're probably going to have to repeat this semester anyway." 

Patrick laughed, uncaring and boisterous. Richie tried not to shiver. Oh, that laugh. "But I missed my little puppy _so much!_ " 

"Jesus Christ," Henry scoffed. "My dad was right-- you _are_ a fag." 

"Takes one to know one, Bowers." 

Richie tried to wriggle quietly away from them without so much as turning around to see them. The hand on his backpack was still holding strong. He could still wriggle out of it, run empty-handed to the nearest classroom-- 

No. No more running. 

Richie spun on his heel an shoved Patrick hard in his scrawny chest with all the force in his body, knocking his beanpole frame back into Henry. "Let the _fuck_ go!" he snarled, and twisted his entire body until Patrick's choices were to release his bag or snap some bones in his hand. Patrick chose the former. 

"Aw, has the puppy learned to play since I've been gone?" Patrick asked. Henry threw his hands up in annoyance. 

"I'm out of here." He stalked off through the clearing hallway. Richie tried to follow, but was pulled back yet again. 

"Why won't you talk to me, Richie?" Patrick asked, still smiling- Richie could hear it in his voice. "That hurts. Didn't you miss me at all? I liked the little present you left on my window..." 

This was all a joke to him. Maybe it had always been a joke. The more Richie played, the more fun it would be for him. And why shouldn't it be? He would never pay any consequences for what he'd done. He could grow up and live the rest of his life a monster, and he'd never change. 

_He'd be better off dead,_ Richie thought savagely. He waited for the guilt to follow such a thought- he'd been raised Baptist, after all; weren't such wishes a sin?- but it never came. He turned a second time and looked straight into Patrick's eyes. 

"Stay away from me," he said quietly. "And stay away from my friends, or I will kill you myself." 

Patrick cocked his head, a watching coyote, sniffing for weakness in the issued challenge. There was none to be found. His smile didn't falter, but it did sharpen- playfulness abating in replacement for cruelty. His hand slipped from Richie's shoulder to his face, holding his jaw in one huge hand, thumb stroking over his soft cheek. "But you're supposed to be my toy," Patrick said, disappointed; a child hearing that Christmas had been cancelled. 

For a moment, clinging onto that foul word like lice, it all came flooding back. The bathrooms. The kisses. The bleeding. The Vaseline. _The fridge, oh God, oh God the fridge..._

More confusingly at all, underneath the disgust, the fear, the hatred- the smallest urge remained to lean into that hand, to allow it. _Just give in. Let him destroy you..._

And then an older thought: _Let their love guide you home,_ a hint of a memory whispered to him like a cooling breeze, and Richie took a deep breath. He had Beverly's knife in his left pocket and Bill's pepper spray in the right. And, just as importantly, he had their love. 

"Not anymore," Richie said, wrenching away from that cold hand. "Not again. I'm not that anymore." 

He took a step back. 

Patrick did not follow him. 

He took a third and a fourth step away, and then he turned his back and walked briskly all the way to second period. 

* * *

The school principal walked into the classroom, his hand on the shoulder of a new boy. He walked this new kid to the teacher, spoke a few words to her, and then left, leaving the boy standing in the front. Chubby and soft in his baggy grey hoodie, eyes lowered as though already expecting to be teased and wanted to get it over with. His clothes looked worn, missized- likely from a second-hand shop. 

"Class," Mrs. Duffer introduced, smiling, with a hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is Benjamin Hanscom! He's come to us all the way from Detroit." 

There were a few disinterested, "Hi, Benjamin's," from the eighth-graders. 

"Ben," the boy muttered, so quietly that Richie and Stan wouldn't have been able to hear him at all had they not been suddenly been paying rapt attention. The cord that rested between them and the other Losers, the red string of fate that had been lying dormant for a while now, was _humming,_ burning, thrumming. It was all Richie could do to stay in his seat, and he saw that Stan's hazel eyes were focused as well; not that the boy in front could see under his fringe of hair. 

"Ben," Mrs. Duffer corrected. "Well. We're very happy to have you in this class, Ben. Why don't you sit in front of Stanley? Let me just fetch you a textbook..." 

Still staring shyly at his shoes, as though used to being a target at other schools and expecting nothing better here, Ben accepted the book and sat quickly in front of Stan, clearly relieved to no longer be in the spotlight. He flipped his scruffy, half-used notebook open and Richie squinted, just making out page upon page of diagrams, absolutely filled with tiny, typewriter-neat handwriting. _Wow..._

"Now, class," Mrs. Duffer instructed in the same perky voice she'd been using since day one. "If we turn to the diagram on page ninety-three..." 

Richie leaned forward, whispering quietly, "Hey-- new kid." 

Ben's shoulders stiffened. _Here we go,_ he seemed to be thinking warily. _And now the bullying starts._ He did not turn around. 

Richie shot a beseeching look at Stan. Stan always made better first impressions. 

Stan lightly tapped Ben's shoulder. "Here- you can look at my notes from earlier this week," he said, passing his own notebook up. When the boy turned, they met eyes. 

They boy froze, and the thing that was inside Richie- that was inside all of them-- hummed louder. He saw a spark of _something_ in the boy's intelligent, dark eyes. _He feels it, too..._ It was both exhilarating and terrifying all at once, that all-encompassing knowledge that he was a pawn in a huge plan. He didn't necessarily _want_ to be a pawn, but it was a little exciting, to see evidence of it, whatever it was, happening. And happening fast. 

"Hey," Richie hissed, unable to contain himself. "Sit with us at lunch, dude- we're in the table in the back, you can't miss us. 

Ben turned to look at him-- seeing, not the bully he'd suspected, but a scrawny, bespectacled geek with too-large front teeth and something Other in his own eyes. The other boy nodded, then swallowed. 

"I-- I guess I will. Thanks." 

Stan and Richie exchanged a glance, and Richie saw his own trepidous intrigue reflected right back at him. It felt like a final, missing puzzle piece being slotted into place to reveal the full picture. 

_It's starting,_ he thought, leg thumping like a rabbit's under his desk. _We're all in the web now._

~ _Fin_ ~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my writing, please consider supporting my original m/m erotica [here](https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?ie=UTF8&text=L.+Rambit&search-alias=digital-text&field-author=L.+Rambit&sort=relevancerank)! Stories range from about $0.99-$2.99 USD and capture a lot of darker themes that you see in my stories on ao3. Reviews on my original work mean the world to me~


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